


Revêts-Moi Dans Les Feuilles

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: A Snake in the Garden of Eden [2]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set two years after M'Offre Une Pomme. Sindria is a fledgling nation, with an enthusiastic king and a seemingly bright future. The problem lies in Ja'far's own misgivings and inability to trust himself, especially with Al-Sarmen looming in the background, and when Ren Kouen washes onto their shores nearly half-dead, Ja'far can only think that he has every reason to worry. Sinja/Jasin, Enja, Enju, implied Sinju.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a nasty habit Ja'far has picked up since leaving Al-Sarmen: _dreaming_.

 

Can they really be called dreams when the images behind his eyelids are like _this_ , though? They're sharp, vivid memories, more than anything. He doesn't need to fabricate anything to create nightmares; these are things that have _happened_ , far more bump-in-the-night than any monster or displaced dread in the pit of his stomach. 

 

_That's because you're a monster, you're the thing that Sinbad dreads coming to the shores of his newly born country._

 

No matter how Ja'far wishes that voice would go away, it's still _right_ , 99% of the time.

 

He wakes with a start, drenched in a cold sweat as he sits upright, fingers curling into the sheets. Amazing that he managed to drift off at all--sleep is a luxury these days, and something he'd rather not allow himself if it means nightmare after nightmare. He'd rather work, throw himself headlong into making sure Sindria's parliament runs as smooth as silk, and while that would be easier with a bit of sleep underneath his belt… does he even need it? Ah, maybe he truly is a monster still, and one of these days when he dies, he'll turn into one of those little dolls that Sinbad needs to crush beneath his boot… 

 

Ja'far wipes a hand over his face and back through his bangs, collapsing backward and letting his hair spread back over the pillow, loose and sweat-soaked as his chest slowly heaves. _This_ is also why he hardly enjoys the invitation to sleep in Sinbad's bed at night. His only solace is that the man is a heavy sleeper, and maybe, _maybe_ he won't notice Ja'far thrashing about (he rarely does, after all). 

 

A strong arm reaches out, snaking around Ja’far’s abdomen and yanking him back hard against a firm chest. Dark hair, black in this light, spills down over Ja’far’s shoulder, though Sinbad doesn’t open his eyes. “This is what happens when you get cold,” he murmurs, tucking his face into the crook of Ja’far’s shoulder. “You wriggle away and then you start dreaming again. Lay still, I’ll fight your monsters.”

 

" _Sin--_ " So much for not noticing. Ja'far huffs out a hot, still-ragged breath into the crook of the man's shoulder, face pressed there no matter how he contemplates squirming away. "I wasn't cold," he mutters, eyes lidding before they shut again, reluctantly admitting to himself that Sinbad is warm and that's _nice_ , and sort of soothing. "I'm sweaty and disgusting now, let me go." 

 

“No. You can wash in the morning, I’m used to being sticky from the heat.” Sinbad lazily wraps a long leg around Ja’far’s hips, added pressure to keep him close. “Come now, you need more sleep if you’re going to terrorize parliament again tomorrow.”

 

"I'm going to terrorize them anyway, sleep or no," is Ja'far's low, cross grumble, complete with a last, half-hearted wriggle to escape. It does him little good and he sighs, sagging forward tiredly. "Can't sleep now," he mutters, eyes lidding. "I don't want to." 

 

Sinbad sighs out a breath through his nose, ruffling Ja’far’s soft hairs. “You want to get up and do an inspection? Go for a starlight run?” His mouth splits into a grin, and he rolls over, pinning Ja’far down to whisper in his ear, “Leave all of this behind, take the _Masrur_ and see where fate and the ocean send us?”

 

Ja'far groans up at him, giving a lazy shove at Sinbad's chest that does little to move the man anywhere. "Those are hardly the words of a responsible king," he chides, even as his arms sling over Sinbad's shoulders and his hands tangle up into his hair. "Your country is still terribly young, we can't just take off like we used to because you feel the desire to be nearly shipwrecked again."

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes, growling deep in his throat. “That’s not very _deferential_ of a King’s advisor.” He lays down hard, letting Ja’far feel every bit of his weight, the midnight stubble of his jaw rasping against pale, smooth skin. “It might be a good test. See if she can stand on her own for a while, I won’t get _too_ shipwrecked.”

 

"Countries don't just _stand on their own_." Ja'far sags back with a slow, _long_ huff of breath, the shiver that rakes down his spine this time less the result of a cold sweat and far more the product of Sinbad nuzzling against his skin. "Who do you expect to be king in your absence?" he murmurs, trailing his fingertips down the man's spine. " _Someone_ has to be." 

 

Sinbad groans, leaning down to nip at Ja’far’s neck, sharply marking him for everyone to see in the morning. “Always so _logical_. What if I just asked the citizens politely to govern themselves while I was away?”

 

"You wouldn't come back to a _country_." Ja'far's nails flex in as his head rolls back, sucking in another, sharp breath before he arches his back in a shove upward. "Roll over. You're heavy." 

 

Sinbad rolls unprotestingly onto his back, letting his hands slide down from Ja’far’s back to his hips, squeezing gently. “You really do have a lot of energy tonight. Maybe you don’t want to go for a sail….how about a ride?”

 

Ja'far snorts, shoving the messy fall of his own hair back from his face as he pushes himself partially upright, perched neatly over Sinbad's hips. "That _phrasing_. You think yourself very clever for coming up with that, don't you?" 

 

“I always think myself clever,” Sinbad says cheekily, relaxing back onto a pillow. “You seem to think yourself appointed to come along and tell me how very wrong I am.”

 

" _Think?_ Try again. I _know_." Ja'far's head tilts, considering, and he stretches up, grabbing for a familiar bottle of oil. There _is_ something to be said about the luxuries of living within a palace once again--perhaps he's gone soft, but there's no denying how used to it he'd become over the years after being loaned to the Kou Empire. "Spread your legs." 

 

The slow raise of an eyebrow is all the protest (question, really) Sinbad makes. “Ah,” he says softly, letting his thighs fall open, reaching a hand to tug on Ja’far’s hair, yanking him down for a kiss. “So that’s how it is tonight.”

 

Ja'far exhales a hot breath against the other man's lips, teeth lightly catching against his lower lip to _tug_. "If it still doesn't take the edge off," he breathes, his palm slick and dripping as it drags over his cock, "then maybe I'll 'go for a ride', too." His knees settle better between Sinbad's spread thighs, hands splaying over his hips to grab and pull him up, and Ja'far hisses out a breath just at the initial press of his cock against that tight hole. Normally, they'd make a game of this, taunting and grabbing and pawing at one another so much more--but he's strung far too tight, tense to the point of aching when he mouths a hot kiss over Sinbad's throat, and that first, slick slide inside is enough to make his breath catch raggedly, his fingers digging in hard to Sinbad's hips as he shoves in deep and stuffs him full.

 

Ja’far is never like this.

 

So Ja’far, Sinbad reasons, must _need_ this tonight.

 

That’s fine, and he’s had rougher (at some point, years and years ago before he and Drakon had learned better), though all the breath leaves him startlingly fast at the first hard press inside. He doesn’t intend the way his fingers clutch at Ja’far’s hair, dragging, scrabbling down his slender back, head tipping back as he groans long and low. “Go on,” he urges, low and breathy. He can’t deny it feels _good_ , in an odd, unready, burning way, something moving _in_ him.

 

"Sorry," is the breathless groan against Sinbad's neck as Ja'far's lips part to _bite_ , sucking long and hard along the bob of his Adam's apple as he makes a sloppy grab for the bottle of oil again. He draws back, the head of his cock still spreading Sinbad wide when he tips the bottle to spread more oil over his cock, and the next slide is even slicker than the last, the wet slap of his hips shoving in _deep_ obscene to his ears and making him shudder. "Just--need to--" _Fuck something, bite something, claw into something, anything_. Sinbad is such a solid, _hot_ weight underneath him, and so he can't help but do all of those things. Ja'far's hands slide down to grab at strong thighs and spread them wider as his hips shove in deep, his teeth sink into Sinbad's shoulder anew, and he's sure he's leaving bruises from how his fingers dig in, strong no matter how _pretty_ Sinbad insists on telling him his hands are.

 

With that extra _slick_ slide, everything is better, and most of the tension leaves Sinbad in a long, deep exhale. Everything about this is unbelievably lewd, from the thick heavy cock shoving into him to Ja’far’s lips to the way his hair is spread out across the pillow, legs being spread like a--

 

Well, he’d say _like a harlot_ , but doubts he’s ever met a harlot whose hamstrings burn quite this much.

 

He’ll complain later, though it’s vaguely amusing in a disjointed, floaty way that doesn’t approach the pleasure, that he can take Ja’far’s fucking and biting just fine--it’s the _stretch of his legs_ that hurts.

 

“Go on,” he rasps again, back arching, and that makes Ja’far hit that something special in him, something he hasn’t felt in _years_. “Ahh--go on, hard as you like--”

 

"I'd make a comment--about how you aren't allowed to call _me_ a whore when you make noises like that, but--" Ja'far shifts, sliding his knees up closer as he grabs at Sinbad's legs, hauling them up and both over one lean shoulder with some effort. "I've never met a whore that was so… _inflexible_ ," he teases, leaning close to snap his teeth over a nipple as his hips grind forward, forgoing _hard_ in lieu of being able to slide in as deep as he can, liking far too much the way that Sinbad writhes on his cock, arching his back like the whore Ja'far wants to accuse him of being. 

 

Sinbad’s next noise is a strangled, helpless thing, a hard shudder starting at the base of his spine and shooting out in every direction, and his hands fall to the bed, clutching tight at the sheets. His world whites out, gone starbursts and awesome colors, every bit of him that’s left devoted to trying to _ride this wave_ , to ride the feeling of Ja’far buried root-deep inside of him, and he spares no thought for those snapping teases. 

 

He’s just too far gone.

 

“Just a little more,” he grunts, shifting down, eyes rolling back into his head at every little _press_. “Just--almost--”

 

Like this, with Sinbad bent as double as Ja'far can _make him_ be and shuddering, groaning like he loves it, there's no chance to do anything but _obey_. 

 

Ja'far turns his head, mouthing a sloppy kiss to the inside of one thigh as he rolls his hips forward, sliding in deep and harder still, shoving Sinbad down into the mattress as he drops a hand down into the bed for leverage. Every arch, every writhe of the man beneath him makes him fuck in harder, hissing out sharp breath between his teeth, his eyes lidded and dark as Ja'far thinks less about how much Sinbad is enjoying this and more about how good it feels to _him_ , tight and slick and the way Sinbad _shivers_ around him, so _eager_ to be used--

 

Ja'far grits his teeth, eyes squeezing shut as he shoves in as deep as he can, a hand scrabbling at one hip to drag Sinbad in close as he comes, gasping out a ragged breath as he spills hot and slick inside.

 

Sinbad has never once in his eventful life felt so thoroughly _used_.

 

He can see it in Ja’far’s face, see that echo of his thoughts, see that to Ja’far right now he’s a _hole_ , something tight and squeezing and shivering, and the _obscene_ feeling of something wet and hot pulsing deep inside him is unbelievably _different_.

 

He tries to tell himself it isn’t something he likes, but the way his body clenches and trembles, back arched into a tight bow as he comes hard all over his belly and folded-back thighs, tells a far different story.

 

Slowly, trying to stop shivering, Sinbad gasps out, “Can you….get off….ah, my legs don’t _bend_ that way.”

 

"Sure they do," Ja'far groans, but he slowly, carefully pulls out all the same, rolling to the side with some effort. He flops down onto his back, raking sweaty hair back from his face. "That's why I can best you in a spar most of the time, you know. You should work on your flexibility." 

 

It _stings_. Sinbad had forgotten about that, and the slick, loose, wet feeling after. He tries not to wince. During the sex it’s _fine_ , but after….

 

“I work on it just fine. I hire flexible people. Like I hire tall people instead of trying to grow a few feet.”

 

"… I don't think that's how it works," Ja'far dryly retorts, and he reaches blindly toward the beside table, scrabbling around a bit before coming back with his pipe. Lighting it, he takes a long, heavy drag, shutting his eyes as he exhales smoke and half-heartedly dangles it in front of Sinbad's face. "Here. I'm sharing. Stop looking so scandalized about being bent in two."

 

“You’re kind of cruel after I let you do that,” Sinbad complains, hauling himself up to a seated position, trying unsuccessfully not to think about how he’ll leave a wet spot on the sheets. He snatches the pipe, breathing in deep, and closes his eyes before handing it back. “Feeling any better?”

 

" _Let_ me? You were sort of begging for it," Ja'far shoots back, eyebrows lifting. He draws in another, slow breath of smoke. "… I'm feeling a bit better. Thank you." Perhaps not so tense, but his mind never quite shuts up. Sinbad doesn't need to hear about all of that, though.

 

“Let you,” Sinbad says firmly. “Everything we do is because we both want to. Don’t let yourself forget that, I know you have before.” He stretches out, grimacing as something _drips_.

 

"Keep making faces like that and I'm not going to put you through such _torment_ again," Ja'far mutters, setting his pipe aside with an annoyed sigh. "I'll go heat up a bath." 

 

Sinbad reaches out, catching Ja’far’s wrist. “Wait. I didn’t mean it like that.” How to explain it, without sounding as if he’s asking for Ja’far to do that to him again? And then Ja’far would just _smirk_ , and call him a whore, and….

 

He lets go. “I don’t mind. Just don’t get annoyed if I’m sore after you bend me in half.”

 

"I'm not _annoyed."_ Did he sound annoyed? Ugh. He's not very good at _not_ sounding annoyed these days, apparently. Heaving a sigh, Ja'far sags back, leaning back onto his elbows. "Forgive me. I'm terrible company these days, I know." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “I won’t argue with you there,” he says carefully. “You could tell me what’s eating you, instead of sniping or snapping. Three more members of parliament threatened to quit today.”

 

"So let them quit. I can do their jobs better myself, anyway," he mutters, flopping back down entirely and rolling onto his side, offering Sinbad his back. 

 

Instead of immediately spooning up behind Ja’far, Sinbad brings his hands up, rubbing slow soothing circles into the other man’s neck and shoulders. “Forget that, I just told them to do their jobs as long as no one’s dying or bleeding and parliament’s working. And _you_ are dodging my question.”

 

"I didn't hear a question, only suggestions." Ja'far's eyes lid before sliding shut entirely again, his head lolling forward as still-tense muscles twitch and shiver underneath Sinbad's touch. 

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes, knowing full well of Ja’far’s tendency to _hear_ such things, or so he’d have everyone believe. He digs his thumb in a slow grind into one knot, and says, “Fine. What’s on your mind, when you wake up sweating and anxious?”

 

Ja'far grits his teeth, swallowing down a groan when that particular muscle puts up a _fight_ before slowly dissolving underneath Sinbad's touch. "… I've told you before. I'm just not used to having nightmares."

 

“But you haven’t told me what they’re about.” Sinbad soothes out one twinging muscle with a few broad swipes of his thumb, then turns to another, even larger knot. “I can tell you one of mine, if you want.”

 

 _Because if you knew, you'd put me out of my misery yourself._ "You don't… ah… have to do that." Ja'far twists, turning his head to press it down into a pillow. "They're just memories replaying. It's nothing I can't handle."

 

Sinbad goes quiet for a moment, stroking long and slow on a tangled muscle, feeling it smooth out. “I dream about the dead, always,” he says softly. “Those I’ve killed, and those who’ve died for me. Those gone to paradise, and to torment, and they all grab a piece of me and dig their nails in, pulling in all directions until they rip the flesh from my bones.”

 

Funny, how that makes his own dreams feel oddly _selfish_. 

 

Ja'far says nothing about it--what can he possibly say, when he's responsible for a number of those deaths with one starkly coming to mind?--and simply rolls away, grabbing for a discarded robe. "I've a few remedies that will make it so you don't dream. They don't work on me anymore, but they would probably do you a few favors." 

 

“No, thanks.” Sinbad folds his hands behind his head, eyes tracking Ja’far as he moves. “I deserve them. Had them since I killed my first man, actually, though then he was just dragging me to hell.” 

 

He hesitates, then ploughs ahead anyway. “Tell me. It’s an order.”

 

Ja'far's teeth set on edge immediately, and he shoots Sinbad a cold look over his shoulder. "Don't." 

 

Sinbad mutters something about _not sure what the point of being king is then_ , but doesn’t push the subject further “At least come back to bed. Let me keep them away for a few more hours.”

 

 _Said as if you ever keep them away in the first place_. Ja'far bites back the words--unnecessarily cruel, even he can see that, when it isn't Sinbad's _fault_ , not in the least. "I was going to get an early start on my work. There's no way I can get back to sleep now, I'll just end up keeping you awake." 

 

Sinbad rolls out of bed, feeling the temperature in the room drop a dozen degrees. “Already awake,” he mutters, grabbing his own robe. Judal should be around, if he’s not still tormenting that poor magician he’d been so keen to play with, and ice magic or no, he’s always the most active cuddler.

 

He's very, very good at making things _worse_ , isn't he? The eternal paradox of what to say and what comes to mind and what he _shouldn't_ say--it makes his head hurt, and Ja'far finds himself biting his tongue again, knowing whatever first comes to mind isn't the right thing, anyway. "… Then I will see you later." For not the first time, Ja'far finds himself fairly certain it should have been his throat that was slit in the middle of the ocean a pair of years ago.

 

~~

 

Why the hell Sindria has to be an _island_ nation, Kouen has no idea. Probably just to make _his life that much more difficult_ , and at this point, he almost gets a grim sort of satisfaction from the illness on the little raft he lashes together with bleeding fingers, hands shaking from lack of food, hair falling ragged into his face. He paddles with his hands, eyes fixed on the moonlit island kingdom, though it’s day and night again by the time he battles currents and waves to make it to the shore. 

 

There’s a faint thought in his mind to wait until the morning, publicly demand sanctuary, and get what is rightfully his by force.

 

That won’t do. Look where that’s gotten them.

 

Instead he finds a rock--more difficult than he’d anticipated on the clean streets of Sindria--and sags down to the street, trying not to simply collapse. Gritting his teeth, he drags himself upright again, and uses a bloody thumb to scrawl Ja’far’s name in Kou characters, all he has space for on the small rock. 

 

The palace isn’t hard to find, though it’s _high up_ , and by the time he gets up there, Kouen swears he’s bleeding from the eyes a bit. It doesn’t stop him, though. Mustering the last of his strength, he hurls the rock, making it in some third-story window, hoping it finds someone, hoping it doesn’t kill anyone, and sags down to the ground in a pile of battered limbs and ratty cloth, unconscious.

 

As luck would have it, that third-story window just so happens to be an archive, and one that Ja'far toils away in even in the middle of the night. 

 

The rock doesn't exactly miss a target--it lands into a pile of scrolls Ja'far is busy sorting out, and subsequently, knocks the bulk of them onto the floor. Ja'far finds himself staring at the mess for a moment before stooping down to pick them all up, eyeballing the window and only then glancing down again to see the rock in question. 

 

 _Kids_ first comes to mind, irritably at that, or maybe even Sinbad attempting to be _cute_ , but turning the rock over in his hand, seeing that bloody scrawl of his name in foreign lettering--

 

The rock is abruptly tossed aside, and he dives towards the window, blades in hand. There's no one _there_ , not in his immediate line of sight, not until he peers out and down and _sees_. 

 

"Shit," is the low, muttered curse out of his mouth, and Ja'far bites his lip, torn between summoning a damned _fleet_ to take care of this… or simply relying on discretion. 

 

The latter will probably get him further. 

 

It's only a matter of minutes before he makes his way out of the window and down the side of the walls, landing lightly on his feet next to Kouen's body. It _is_ Kouen--he can tell that much just from the man's magoi, a skill that thankfully hasn't been lessened courtesy of disuse, and gingerly, Ja'far presses a pair of fingers to the man's neck to check his pulse. Still alive, somehow. "You're heavy, don't make me _carry_ you," Ja'far murmurs, even as he kneels down, hefting the much larger man's form over his shoulder with a grunt of effort. 

 

His own bed is a good as place as any to deal with this. Waking Sinbad about it all in the morning, once Kouen is cleaned up and _hopefully_ still living, is a far better choice than submitting him to confusion in the middle of the night. So much for getting any work done.

 

Kouen wakes up as soon as he hits the bed, a startling softness when there’s been nothing like that in weeks. Every part of him tenses, eyes wide and startled when he looks up, seeing Ja’far, and takes in a slow, labored breath. “You found me.” His voice sounds like rock dragging against rock, harsh and ragged.

 

"Well," Ja'far says pointedly from where he perches on the edge of the bed, "you threw a rock onto my scrolls." Wringing out a cloth, he carefully wipes it along the other man's face, cleaning away a great deal of the dirt caked there. "Can you sit up a bit? I have fresh water, and you look extremely dehydrated." 

 

Kouen’s laugh is a harsh, mirthless bark. “The gods are on my side,” he says bitterly, without a hint of conviction. He sits, though it’s a struggle, and he shoves himself up on his hands. “Water, please.”

 

Wordlessly, Ja'far reaches for the pitcher, pouring a cup and easing it to Kouen's lips, entirely unsure if he's capable of holding the thing himself. "What happened?" 

 

The first sip makes Kouen realize just how much water he lacks, and he sips, gulping urgently, fumbling with swollen, battered hands to finish the glass before collapsing back onto the bed, panting. “Coup,” he says, finally, chest heaving. “They’re all gone.”

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow at that, and he pours another cupful, sliding a hand around the back of Kouen's head to help ease it back up and help him drink again-- _slower_ , this time. "Who is gone?" he lowly asks. "And who staged it? Drink slowly, En, you're going to choke yourself." 

 

“ _Her_.” Kouen chokes down a few more sips, then turns his face away. The heat of the rage burns away everything else he feels, up to and including thirst. “Gyokuen. She brought them in, killed father, Yuu, Ren, Ria, Ze….Ei….” Everything burns, and he can’t see for a moment with the unshed tears making his eyes bright.

 

_I told you to get rid of her. I told you she was working with them. Why didn't you get rid of her first?_

 

If there is one thing Ja'far has learned outside of Al-Sarmen's hold, scolding others about their mistakes in the face of death never goes over well-- _especially_ regarding the death of family or loved ones. He pulls away, setting the cup down and easing Kouen's head back down onto the pillow. "And your brothers?" he quietly asks. 

 

“Turned.” The word is the most bitter, and Kouen spits it out. “They were at her side. She’s put Ryuu on the throne, made him her puppet, and Ha and Mei are _serving_ him.”

 

That hardly sounds like Koumei, and least of all the youngest. Ja'far's eyebrows raise, and he reaches for the washcloth again, dunking it into the water once more. "More likely, Koumei is attempting some self-preservation and telling Kouha to shut his mouth so he doesn't get himself killed." He grasps Kouen's chin firmly, tilting his head back and scrubbing away another good portion of dirt and grime. "If you traveled all this way and in this state to Sindria, then you obviously think there is something there worth saving still, so use some common sense." 

 

Kouen reaches up, catching Ja’far’s eyes and squeezing his wrist. “I’m going,” he says slowly, clearly, “to take my country _back_. And whoever stands in my way….I don’t care who it is. They’ll pay.”

 

That sounds more like Kouen, thankfully. Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, twisting his wrist within Kouen's hold to free it and briefly brush his thumb over the back of his hand. "Right now," he quietly replies, "you need to rest. Let me clean you up, and you can speak to Sinbad first thing in the morning after you've slept. I'm assuming that's why you came here." _Because Sinbad is going to be so thrilled at the idea of butting heads with a situation like this--_ ugh. The problem is that he probably _will_ be thrilled. He's been itching for the past two years for another chance to sink his teeth into Al-Sarmen, and if this isn't the perfect opportunity, then what is?  

 

Kouen bares his teeth, but he sinks back, doing as Ja’far says. “I haven’t been using my magoi to fuel myself,” he admits. “No djinn, no nothing. I remembered you saying once they could use it to track Judal.”

 

Ja'far nods. "That must be how you made it so far. Glad to know you paid attention at least a few times. I can have him put a shield of sorts on you in the morning, to better make sure they can't follow your movements… are you injured anywhere, by the way? I could poke around myself, but you've never enjoyed that." 

 

“Just do whatever needs to be done.” Kouen grits his teeth, and raises his left arm, exposing a long, festering gash in his side. “Do something about this, it’s what keeps making me fall down.”

 

Ja'far cocks his head to look at it. "Lovely. Right," he says, climbing to his feet, "you're getting a proper bath to get all of this dirt off of you and _then_ I can tackle that. Come on, arm back around my shoulders. You're going to hate me by the time the night is up, I apologize in advance." 

 

Normally, Kouen would balk from anyone that has as many scars as Ja’far volunteering to sew him back up. Tonight, all he cares about is something that gets him mobile again. He somehow gets back onto his feet, fighting back the dizziness tooth and nail, and slings an arm unprotestingly over Ja’far’s shoulders. “You’re stronger than you look.”

 

"I know, I already carried you all the way up here," Ja'far grunts, looping an arm firmly about Kouen's waist to haul him to the _thankfully_ large tub. Luxuries like this are ridiculous to him, but insisted upon by Sinbad, and after the first time the man bodily dropped himself into the tub with him, Ja'far at least had some measure of thanks regarding the washtub's size. 

 

Having it heated near-constantly is another perk, and one Ja'far is certain Kouen will appreciate right about now. A single dagger makes quick work of the man's clothing, and Ja'far tosses a handful of leaves into the slowly steaming water before helping Kouen in. "It's going to sting," he warns. "Bear it while all of the grime steeps off and out of you, and I'll get what I need to patch up your side."

 

It does sting--if it can be calling “sting” when liquid fire is poured into his skin, flooding his veins, and he only stops from screaming by _whimpering_ , every muscle twitching.

 

Kouen turns his mind instead to Hakuei, and the pain turns as cold and dead as she.

 

He stops making noise.

 

It's only a few moments before Ja'far returns, a towel and fresh robes in hand as well, and he sets it aside in favor of moving to scrub away some of the more stubborn bits from Kouen's skin, and work soap through his hair in turn. "… I'm sorry," he slowly, carefully says, "to hear about Ei."

 

Kouen doesn’t remember not feeling cold. He lets his head tip forward in acknowledgement, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, imagining a thousand things that aren’t in front of him. Quietly, he says, “She will be avenged.”

 

"… Just so long as you don't kill yourself in the process." Ja'far tugs lightly on Kouen's hair to ease his head back, washing the soap away in short order. "That isn't going to do any good for anyone." 

 

“Everything my father and uncle worked to achieve,” Kouen says, “is gone. I won’t rest until she’s gone too.” He turns his head, looking at Ja’far. “Do you think Sinbad will help?”

 

"Likely." _Eagerly_ , more like. Ja'far bites back a sigh as he eases himself back to his feet, and catches hold of Kouen's arm to help ease him up and out of the water. "Let me treat the wound on your side, and you can rest for awhile." The towel is thrown over Kouen's head, scrubbing away the dampness from his hair. "If you have trouble sleeping, I can do something about that, too."

 

“Do me a favor, knock me out before you treat the wound.” Kouen levers himself up with a great deal of difficulty, vision going spotty and gray before he steadies himself on Ja’far’s shoulders. “Put me to sleep, then do whatever you want. Just get me functional.”

 

A reasonable enough request, that, and one he expected. Ja'far nods and simply produces a small vial, uncapping it before pressing it to Kouen's lips. "Drink, then. Don't worry, I'll carry you to bed. Again." 

 

Kouen drinks without hesitation, ignoring the putrid taste. “There,” he mutters. “When does it--”

 

He sags, eyes rolling back into his head, and everything goes black.

 

~~

 

Sinbad has been patient.

 

It’s a new virtue for him, something he’s been working hard to cultivate for the last several months, and as of now he can say it’s _definitely_ paid off. He’s waited an entire day before seeking Ja’far out to pin him down and kiss him senseless, when before he’d have been hard-pressed to wait an hour after one of their spats. Truly, with age comes wisdom.

 

He’s not sure what comes with the knowledge that Ja’far is sleeping half on the floor, half on his bed, with none other than _Kouen fucking Ren_ sprawled out on the bed. 

 

He can’t quite think, can’t quite _process_ , so he just waits, staring, and shuts the door.

 

While apparently, he's managed to sleep through a great many things, someone simply walking into his bedroom is something else entirely. Ja'far wakes with a start, eyes fluttering open as he jerks back from the edge of the bed that he kneels next to, and blinks bleary-eyed at the sight of Sinbad in the doorway, all before cursing underneath his breath at the state of the sun shining in through his windows. 

 

"… Good afternoon." Belatedly, he glances down to Kouen--good, he's still breathing, if the rise and fall of his chest is an indication--before slowly climbing to his feet, stretching out creaking joints. "I was hoping to find _you_ first, to tell you about this," Ja'far says, waving a hand down to the man on his bed. 

 

“Ah. Were you.” Sinbad raises an eyebrow, looking from Kouen to Ja’far, then back twice more. Funny, he doesn’t feel too much like kissing Ja’far right now. “And just how long has _this_ been here?”

 

Ja'far's brow furrows in open confusion. Sometimes, Sinbad acts annoyed with him for reasons he can't quite pinpoint, and this is one of those times. Maybe it's just residual from the night before… or maybe he just doesn't get it. Either way, it's headache-inducing. "Since last night, when he threw a rock at me from the palace steps and collapsed half-dead. I helped him up here and treated his wounds. It seems a coup was staged within the Kou Empire--you are looking at the result." 

 

For the first time, Sinbad turns his attention to Kouen instead of Ja’far, and a slow, heady fizz starts under his skin. This means _change_. This means _possibilities_ ,, and _excitement_ , and Sinbad can’t quite help the way his eyes widen. “Well. In that case, make certain he’s granted all privileges as the head of an allied nation-- _quietly_. No need to announce his presence to his enemies, even Sindria isn’t proof against spies. Will he live, or is it close? I can send Judal in, if you think his skills outweigh the risk of his loose tongue.”

 

"… Judal needs to come in, anyway--he'll be fine, I sewed him up quite nicely, but it's a matter of shielding his magoi so Al-Sarmen can't find him." Ja'far's eyes lid as they fix upon Sinbad. "This isn't something to look _excited_ about." 

 

Sinbad’s excitement fades as he sees the look on Ja’far’s face. Ah. Not one of those theoretical, rare bloodless coups, then. “Who was lost?”

 

"His betrothed, for one--all of his cousins, actually, save for the youngest boy, and a number of his sisters. Of those that remain--apparently Gyokuen has put her youngest on the throne, and has Kouen's two brothers serving him. It's a classic move by Al-Sarmen, all of it." 

 

As classic as it might be, Sinbad doubts Ja’far has seen it very often, or quite this close. He doubts Ja’far’s ever spent much time in the same place, for one thing. “You knew them, didn’t you?”

 

Ja'far stares back at him. "I lived in that palace for longer than I have anywhere else. It would be difficult for me _not_ to." An exasperated sound, and he glances away. "I don't know why he didn't do away with her. Gyokuen has been Al-Sarmen's witch from the beginning."

 

“Because she stopped me.” Kouen sits up with a labored groan, holding his head in his hands. He breathes deeply, trying to shove the pain aside as he leans back against a wall. “Poison, dagger, magic. None of the men I sent did any good.”

 

 _Then you should have contacted me_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Ja'far shoves it down as quickly as it wants to escape. The last thing he wanted-- _wants_ \--is involvement with Al-Sarmen again. Being sleepless because of them is bad enough. "… Then you did all you could," he simply replies instead, and turns away to grab a few leaves from the bedside table before dropping himself back onto the edge of the bed. "Chew on these, it's a good numbing agent--and lie back down, you're still unwell." 

 

“I won’t be _well_ until I put all of them in the ground,” Kouen mutters, but he chews on the leaves all the same, exhaling a stuttering breath when the mind-numbing agony starts to fade. “King Sinbad--I had hoped to meet you--I mean, _officially_ meet you--” Ah, that came out more slurred than he’d anticipated, the leaves are acting on his tongue as well. “I’d hoped to offishally meet you in thifferent thircumshtances….” He scowls at Ja’far. “How long are theshe going to--”

 

Sinbad waves a hand. “Let me cut through the words. None are necessary. As far as I am concerned, we are allies.” He offers Kouen a hand, which the other man takes firmly. “If Ja’far trusts you in his bed, I trust you in my kingdom.”

 

Ja'far fixes a deadpan look upon Sinbad--really, was that phrasing _necessary?_ \--before drawing away with a shake of his head. "Keep trying to talk, it should continue to be entertaining," he mildly puts in. "If you like, I'll hunt Judal down, and you can entertain him while he heals you and possibly chews off one of your limbs in excitement." 

 

Kouen’s numb mouth twitches in a smile he can’t quite repress. In spite of anything…. “I would like to shee him again,” he admits. 

 

“I’ll fetch him,” Sinbad volunteers. “As soon as you tell me how you got here. Was it by sea? On which side did you keep the sun? Did you keep the sun on your left side at sea as you sailed?”

 

Kouen shoots him a dirty look, and Sinbad claps him on the shoulder, standing. “See, we’re nearly friends already.”

 

Ja'far chokes down a snort of laughter. "Don't mind him," he reassures the prince all the same. "He has a tendency to be petty before an evening of drinking himself stupid." 

 

Kouen shakes his head, putting a hand to his side and wincing at the feel of the stitches. “Makesh more shenshe than to do it after….god, I’m--” His mouth twists in distaste, and he wipes at the drool trying to make its way down his chin.

 

God, he's surrounded by worthless men. "Just stop talking," Ja'far dryly advises, grabbing for a cloth to dab at Kouen's face. "It's much more dignified, and I have too much work to do to play servant for you all day."

 

Kouen’s numb face falls. “Of coursh. Don’t want to--you’re bushy.” That’s a thing he’s used to, at least. Even before, Ja’far would see to everyone else’s needs before his own, which always meant Kouen was at the bottom of the list, as the only one Ja’far could trust to take care of himself.

 

"On top of that, you're going to want a proper bed--my room is hardly suited for a visiting prince--"

 

"En!" 

 

 _How_ Ja'far manages to catch the pouncing Magi before he can launch himself bodily on top Kouen is beyond him--years of practice, more than anything, and Ja'far sucks in a slow, calming breath, reminding himself not to strangle Judal with his own damned braid. "Judal," he slowly grinds out, gripping the squirming thing tightly, "he's _injured._ "

 

"Oh." Judal squints from where he's held. "I guess he is. En, what happened?"

 

Only _then_ does Ja'far release the brat, letting him topple down onto the bed _next_ to Kouen in a heap of gauzy silks and hair, all too reminiscent of a kitten that has gotten itself tangled up into a ball of yarn. "See, you have company even without me," Ja'far matter-of-factly says, wiping his hands off as he rises. "Company far more suited to healing you up, at that. I'll check on you later, once he's done."

 

Kouen would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased to see Judal, and reaches a battered, bruised hand up to tug the Magi’s braid affectionately. “Don’t mind my voish,” he says, making a face. “Ja’far gave me thoshe leavsh.”

 

Judal makes a face. "Ooh. I can fix that, too."

 

"I'll be back later," Ja'far tosses over his shoulder to the both of them, pulling his hair over his shoulder to braid it as he heads toward the door. "I'll bring you something to eat--"

 

"Food," Judal insists, throwing a leg over Kouen's hips to perch himself above him, quite intent on examining his wounds from this 'vantage point.' "lots of food."

 

"Lots of food," Ja'far agrees on a sigh, and promptly shuts the door behind himself. 

 

“And hide me,” Kouen says quietly. “Al-Tharmen….take the damn leavth away before I thay anything elth.”

 

Judal freezes briefly at that, his brow furrowing. "… What about Al-Sarmen?" he warily asks as he sinks back to sit on Kouen's thighs, and it's with a careful, prodding touch of magoi that the leaf's effects are nullified, with his own, soothing layer of magic replacing the pain-numbing effects instead. 

 

Thank all the gods, Kouen can feel his mouth starting to work again. He spits out the last of the leaf-tasting water, making a face. “Hide my magoi, Ja’far says you can. Then we’ll talk.”

 

"You've got a lot of it… I don't know if I can entirely," Judal confesses--not to mention Kouen isn't exactly Ja'far, who makes a point of cloaking it all entirely, anyway. He frowns, lifting his hand to cast a tentative shield over the man, which shimmers briefly in the air before disappearing. "Maybe I can bind something to a metal vessel of yours later."

 

Little as it is, Kouen rests a little easier. He lets out a long slow breath, and nods. “They came. Gyokuen. She’s gone fully to them, now.” He starts to feel, then shoves it down. That’s not helpful right now. “No one was safe.”

 

Judal shivers, just the _name_ of the woman making him uneasy, and he sinks down, flopping--carefully--atop of Kouen's chest. "Are you… did anyone else get away?"

 

Kouen lets his good arm drape across Judal’s back, pulling him close. “That advisor of Gyoku’s got her away. Ryuu is Emperor now, of all things. Mei and Ha are working with her.” He swallows hard. “No one else.”

 

 _No one else_.

 

That means Yuu and Ren and _Ei_ \--Judal swallows, butting his head underneath Kouen's chin. No matter if he always complained about Kouen spending time with her instead of him, that didn't exactly mean he wanted something like _this_ to happen… or anything at all. "Sorry," he mumbles, and it's on an errant thought that he remembers to actually set a healing spell into motion. He can _feel_ the heat from that wound on Kouen's side, no matter Ja'far's work from the night prior. "Really sorry. It'll… you can get Kou back, I know you can."

 

Kouen finds himself oddly touched by the sentiment. Touched, and _relieved_ when some of the pain starts to drain away, not in the odd tingling feel-less-ness of Ja’far’s horrible leaves, but because they’re actually being _healed_. “If I do,” he says slowly, one hand stroking affectionately down Judal’s back, “and I ride to war, you have to promise me you’ll stay out of it. You can’t fight against Al-Sarmen, they might hurt you or kill you. You’re the last person I have to protect, all right?”

 

"I've been getting a lot stronger, you know," Judal protests, frowning up at him and taking an idle snap at Kouen's beard. "That witch couldn't even _touch me_." It's a whole lot of bravado, especially when he thinks of everyone _else_ within Al-Sarmen, but _still_. "You helped me before, why can't I help you now? Isn't that why you came here?"

 

Kouen bats Judal reflexively away from his beard, tightening his arm around Judal’s waist. “I was trying to keep you safe and happy then, and I’m trying to do the same now. You can help me plenty without marching up to Al-Sarmen. Remember what they did to you last time you went missing? And that was when they still thought you’d be some _use_ to them.”

 

"I'll bite them," is Judal's cross grumble. "Maybe if I help, they'll go away faster _everywhere_. They still bother Ja'far, I can tell."

 

Kouen has to laugh at that--and realizes with a start it’s the first time he’s laughed since it all happened. “They’re bothersome, all right. If I promise to find you ways to help, will you agree to follow my lead on this? They’re _dangerous_ , more than most people realize.”

 

"I know how dangerous they are." _They chained me to a bed for months, for starters_. Judal huffs, curling up into a ball atop Kouen's chest. "Fine. I'll listen. Are you feeling better now, by the way? Your rukh isn't so… woogly." 

 

“I’m feeling better,” Kouen allows, laying back down and stroking Judal gently. It doesn’t really matter where, his rukh has always felt more at ease with the Magi present, especially when they’re touching. “You do me good.”

 

"Then actually sleep." Judal headbutts him again, settling down more comfortably. "You'll heal faster that way… and by the time you wake up, you'll be as good as new," he murmurs, eyes lidding as he's petted. "Also, there will be food." 

 

The thought of food isn’t terribly appetizing, but Kouen’s stomach rumbles anyway. He can’t quite remember the last time he’d had proper food, which isn’t the _best_ sign, and he sighs. “You know I may not live through all of this. Some very, very powerful people want me dead.”

 

Judal prides himself on being able to bite Kouen's beard before he's stopped this time. "You're being dumb," he growls, scowling up at him through his lashes. "What good are you dead? Hakuryuu's a crybaby, he can't run a country, so take it back from him."

 

“I’m not worried about _Hakuryuu_ ,” Kouen says with a snort, batting Judal away with more force this time. “He’s being used as a puppet. It’s that witch that’s causing it all, she’s the one to fear.”

 

"He's still sitting on _your_ throne, kick him off," Judal sniffs, eyeing Kouen's hand before deciding to try biting that instead. "And it's okay, Sinbad will help. There's a reason I picked him as my king, you know."

 

“Because he’s better than me?” Kouen asks wryly.

 

"Because he's _strong_ ," Judal corrects with a frown. "You're not still mad about that, are you?" 

 

 _Of course. You were my chance to rule the world, and you took the hand of a pirate and bit the one that fed you._ “Of course not. Obviously I wasn’t strong enough.” A bitter smile creases his face. “I can see now that you were right. A strong enough king wouldn’t have let this happen.”

 

"That's not…" The Magi trails off in a grumble, sitting up with his hands planted against Kouen's chest as he frowns down at him. "You know, I just _recently_ chose him. He's been building this country for two years and it was just a few months ago that I thought it would be a good idea. It has nothing to do with your ability to run a country or not, it's just… it's a _feeling_. Regular humans don't get it." 

 

“Ah.” At that, Kouen does relax slightly, reaching up a bruised hand to thumb over Judal’s jawline. “That does make me feel better. I forget, sometimes, that you aren’t entirely human.”

 

"I'm more like a _god_ ," Judal says proudly, pressing his lips to Kouen's palm. "Only someone like a god could heal you this fast."

 

God, it’s impossible to stay anything like angry at Judal. It always has been, since he was tiny. “And how can you be surprised,” he asks softly, “that I was upset there was no longer a god at my side?”

 

"I'm not… surprised." Judal's eyes lid, and another, idle kiss to Kouen's palm makes the bruises and cuts on his fingers fade away. "I just don't want you to hate me. I didn't choose the way I did because I liked you any less." 

 

“I never hated you. I _missed_ you.” Kouen closes his eyes briefly, relaxing as the pain fades from his hand, and tugs Judal down closer. “You weren’t just the Magi I wanted. You’ve always been my friend.”

 

"But you ignored me a lot," is the grumpy response to follow, "and treated me like a kid. I'm 17 now, you know. Definitely not a kid." 

 

“I was _working_ a lot,” Kouen retorts. “And you know, you’ve been a kid for most of your life. It’s hard seeing you as an adult.”

 

"But I'm a _Magi_. That immediately excludes me from kid things." Judal folds his arms as he flops his head down onto them, pouting up at the other man. "Whatever. You can make it up to me now."

 

Kouen blinks down at him. “Can I? How exactly shall I do that?”

 

Judal rolls his eyes. "By letting me help you, like I said before."

 

Ah. That. Kouen huffs out a breath, collapsing back onto the bed. “Let me talk to your king first. Can you even do things without his permission?”

 

"I'm not his _slave_." Judal snuggles pointedly down against Kouen. "You can talk to him later. Right now, resting. You're still a bit woogly."

 

Sleep doesn’t sound any better than food, but he knows enough the signs that his body is craving something desperately. Kouen submits with good grace (sort of), laying back and shutting his eyes. “I’ll sleep better with you close.”

 

Judal hums his approval at that. "I'm attached, don't worry. I make a good blanket--or my hair does, so I've been told."

 

“You never let me play with your hair.”

 

"That's because you're kind of bad at it." Judal sighs all the same, and grabs at his braid to pull it up and pluck the tie from the end of it. "But right now, I'll forgive you." 

 

~~

 

Sinbad doubts strongly that Ja’far is anywhere other than his office.

 

He’s right, of course, and Ja’far is bent over scrolls by candlelight, looking drawn and waxen as Sinbad’s ever seen him, and Sinbad steps in unceremoniously, shutting the door behind him. “Come with me.”

 

Ja'far's eyes flicker upward, though only for a sparse moment. "To where, exactly?" _I'm working_ is the unspoken addition--unnecessary, at this point, when it's only tiresome to say and probably irritating to hear. 

 

“Kou, I assume,” Sinbad says simply, folding his arms. “And you’re no use to anyone like this, so come with me and I’ll have Judal knock you out, if those drugs aren’t working.”

 

His stare resumes in spades. "… You're joking. Who is going to watch over _your country_ if we both go? And for that matter, why have you decided so quickly that you're going to go personally? It's _suicide_." 

 

“I’ve done plenty of things people have said is suicide in my time,” Sinbad says with a wave of his hand. “I’m not dead yet.” 

 

He steps closer, and sighs. “The broken man in my guest room is the only reason I have you and Judal with me, and safe. He is owed something.”

 

"Of course he's owed something. I'm not saying don't _help him_ , I'm saying--" Ja'far exhales a long, annoyed sigh, waving a hand in exasperation as he pushes away from his desk. "Use _caution_. Have you learned nothing about throwing yourself headlong into Al-Sarmen's affairs?" 

 

Sinbad catches Ja’far’s arms with his hands, holding him fast. “I’ve learned,” he says quietly, deadly serious, “that they’re calculating, cruel, ruthless, deceitful, and immense. I’ve also learned that they are _not_ infallible, nor unstoppable. They can be hurt, they can be killed, and it is the duty of any who would oppose them to do so. And I owe them plenty for my friends that have gone before, and for what they’ve done to you and Judal. I will fight them, until my death or until they cease to exist.”

 

Ja'far's jaw sets itself into a tense line, his weight rocking backwards onto his heels. "You seem to think you've seen the worst of them. You're wrong." _Why do you think they're capable of controlling a Magi? Why do you think they've been able to_ kill one _in the past?_ Sucking in a slow breath, Ja'far shakes his head, tugging back against Sinbad's hold. "You're going to kill yourself. Gyokuen… if she's moved now, then that means she has far more support from Al-Sarmen than I thought. Previously, there was some opposition in our ranks, thinking she was too unstable, but…" 

 

“Good. Unstable, opposition, those are useful.” Sinbad grins. “I think you’ll find that no matter how well-armed they are, I can be quite...disarming.” Ah, no one properly appreciates his humor, and that’s the truth.

 

"Stop trying to make this into a joke!" 

 

Ja'far _wishes_ his voice wasn't so shrill, but there's no helping it, not when his temper spikes and he wants little more than to strangle Sinbad for being such a _fool_. "They killed three of the strongest people within the Kou Empire. They _nearly_ killed Kouen. You _aren't_ more powerful than him, no matter how many djinn you have! Do you think I am capable of diving into that nest again and pulling you out if they decide to _play with you_ rather than kill you? Because I'm _not_ , I'm--" His chest heaves. "I'm _not_ , so stop trying to go places where I can't _protect you_." 

 

Sinbad’s humor falters, and the smile slips from his face. In one long stride, he crosses the distance between them, wrapping Ja’far firmly in his arms and grabbing the smaller man tight to his chest, a grip like iron holding them together. “I won’t force you into a choice like that,” he murmurs against Ja’far’s hair, not giving him an inch of room to push away. “And I swear, we’ll both come through this and out the other side. I _swear_ it.”

 

Ja'far tries to remember how to breathe normally and not hyperventilate. It's a little difficult, no matter how Sinbad is close again, and grabbing hold of the man's robes in a viselike grip is somewhat therapeutic. "But you _are_ ," he exhales shakily. "You _are_ forcing it. By going directly to Kou, you're all but _begging_ for it." 

 

“Give me some credit,” Sinbad says with a squeeze. “I’m hardly going directly to Kou. All I said was that I would _help_ , and that I want to fight them. I never said I was going to knock on their front door and challenge their Father to a duel.”

 

A groan, and Ja'far buries his face into Sinbad's shoulder. "But that's what you _want_ to do. Given the opportunity to fight our--their Father, and you'd do it in a heartbeat." 

 

“Yes,” Sinbad admits, and grins. “Don’t pretend you’d be half as interested in me if I were a modest, retiring sort. But it’s _fine_ , I have no desire to throw everything I’ve worked for away for Kouen’s sake.”

 

"Telling me to go with you to Kou with _Judal_ of all things sounds like you're throwing quite a bit away," Ja'far mutters, and he shakes his head as he makes to pull away. "The brat has no idea how to handle himself against Al-Sarmen, for that matter." 

 

“I’ll take your advice on those matters, if you like,” Sinbad says, and crushes Ja’far against him harder, just in case. “Just don’t snap at me and tell me I’m the world’s biggest fool for wanting to take the fight to them. Talk to me, and I’ll listen.”

 

"… Snapping is still talking." The words are muffled into Sinbad's shoulder as Ja'far finds himself thoroughly squished once more. "It's just forceful talking."

 

“Then speak forcefully to offer other solutions,” Sinbad suggests. “Telling me I’m doing wrong isn’t nearly as useful as giving me an idea of what to do right. I do listen, if you put forth a good idea, you know.”

 

Ja'far's face slowly rubs into Sinbad's shoulder, probably the product of him shaking his head. "It's hard to do that," he quietly replies, "when I'm not sure my advice is very good lately at all."

 

“An advisor that only tells his King what an idiot he is is no great advisor,” Sinbad points out, but his voice is gentle. “There’s much more in you than that. I don’t latch on to people who aren’t any good. And I’ve latched on to you, whether that pleases you or not.”

 

"… Telling you what an idiot you are is the only advice I trust myself to give as of late." Ja'far's muffled laugh is a little too high and anxious. "And even that, I'm beginning to wonder about. I resign, just leave me to file papers until eternity." 

 

“I don’t take any resignations seriously when they’re given by men who haven’t slept or eaten properly in weeks.” Sinbad finally pulls back, but keeps a tight grip on Ja’far’s arms, keeping him from going anywhere. “Let Judal spell you tonight, after you’ve eaten something--and I’m going to _watch_ you eat, and I’m not going to finish it for you. If you still want to resign in the morning, I’ll listen.”

 

"He's tried to spell me already."

 

The admission makes his throat tight, and Ja'far's head slowly shakes again. "The nightmares still come, and then I can't even wake from them. I'd rather not sleep. Knowing about Kouen now… I… I'm certain Al-Sarmen's movements are connected to this, somehow." 

 

Sinbad raises one eyebrow. “This is the kind of thing I was talking about,” he points out mildly. “If you’re going to avoid sleep, you need to come up with another suggestion. That’s like giving up air--you _can’t_. So either I’ll lay on you until you sleep, or I’ll fight Al-Sarmen until they leave you alone, or you’ll die. If you have an alternative, please, let me hear it.”

 

" _Humans_ die if they don't sleep at all," Ja'far mutters, looking aside. "Considering the lack of sleep I've had lately, I'm starting to think maybe I'll just turn into one of those little dolls." 

 

“Do dolls have nightmares?” Sinbad asks, and if Ja’far won’t look at him, there’s no alternative, and he simply crushes Ja’far against his chest again. “Do they have dark circles under their eyes? Stop giving up on yourself.”

 

"Lop my head off and find out." _Stop giving up on yourself_ \--god, he makes it sound so _easy_. Ja'far sags, giving up on any attempts to get _away_ , at least, and shuts his eyes, exhaling a long, shaky sigh. "I don't… know what to do." And out of everything, that's probably the worst thing he's ever had to admit.

 

Privately, Sinbad is thoroughly convinced that the demons aren’t in Al-Sarmen, but in Ja’far’s mind. He knows better than to expect that Ja’far will buy something like that, though, especially not after the recent news. At least the relaxation is a step in the right direction. “Worry about yourself first,” he advises, “because to be honest, you’re doing a piss-poor job of worrying about me.”

 

Ja'far's face falls. "I don't… I'm trying to keep you from getting killed." 

 

“But you’re _not_ ,” Sinbad says, frowning down at Ja’far’s crestfallen face. “Look, I want you at my side, I’ve never said otherwise, and I’m not now! I just don’t think you’re _present_ right now. Your mind is full of Al-Sarmen and traitors and everything, you’re not helping _anyone_ like this.”

 

"… I see."

 

_So I'm useless._

 

That particular thought makes him _numb_ , the heavy, stark reminder that he would never be anything without Al-Sarmen coming to the forefront in seconds. _Useless_ \--tenfold, when Sinbad actually says it. Ja'far sucks in a sharp breath, nodding sharply and extricating himself from Sinbad's hold in short order. "Then I'll just… keep working until I can actually sleep, then. At least that's doing something." 

 

Sinbad frowns, but he doesn’t immediately recapture the man. Then, he hops up on Ja’far’s desk, nudging the scrolls aside to make some room. “Do you know what you need?” he asks, musing. “You need a new title. Advisor, instead of Assassin. I mean, I haven’t needed you to kill anyone for months, that’s probably doing you no favors. Do you think you could think of yourself like that?”

 

"Those titles have to do with what we're good at." Ja'far sits down, lighting up another candle with a sigh--and making sure to keep it away from Sinbad's hair, for good measure. "I needn't explain further than that, I think." 

 

The moaning can only go so far before it starts to make Sinbad twitchy. “What would you do if I burned your office down?”

 

"Set your hair on fire." 

 

A mischievous little smile twitches at the corner of Sinbad’s lips. “Would you?” He grabs the candle, and holds it a bare inch away from a pile of scrolls. “Would you _really_?”

 

"Will you stop that?" Ja'far huffs out, grabbing at his scrolls to haul them some distance away. "I've done _nothing_ but archive and rewrite and archive again lately, don't you _dare."_

 

“Exactly,” Sinbad calls, and picks up another scroll, one containing a message he’s already read, and tears it neatly into five or six pieces. “You never have time for anything else. I’m going to put a lock on this place.”

 

Ja'far stares, his mouth falling open, and his fingers twitch with the urge to snatch the candle back and _truly_ put it to his supposed king's hair. "Who _else_ is going to do it?" he finally manages. "In case you haven't noticed, Sindria is still an incredibly young country! Having untrained hands in parliament would be a disaster!" 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Worst that can happen is we fall into the ocean,” he says cheerfully, and puts his feet up on the desk. “Come get drunk with me, and I’ll leave your office alone.”

 

"The worse that can _happen_ is your country could collapse around the seams, there could be a rebellion against you, they could tear apart the palace and try and _kill you_ \--" Ja'far's teeth grit, and he grabs the candle threateningly. "Get off my desk and stop threatening my scrolls, they did nothing to you!"

 

Sinbad laughs, dancing out of the way of the candle. “The people love me,” he says dismissively, and jumps up, hanging from one of the support beams. “One night, come get drunk with me, or I’ll set this whole place on fire. Or--I know, a tornado! You’ve seen me use Focalor.” The bracelet starts to glint in the candlelight, gathering a silver glow.

 

Ja'far can already feel himself start to break out in hives. "What is the _point_ of this, exactly?" 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “If you refuse to be my advisor, I suppose you’re my friend. And my friends come drinking with me.” He drops lightly onto the ground, letting the glow fade, and Focalor slips back into rest. “I’ll give you ten seconds to make a decision. Ten. Nine.”

 

"Why are you so infuriating all of the time?!" Even if he's sleep-deprived, he still has good aim, and he's rather proud of how a heavily bound book slaps right into Sinbad's chest, avoiding his face out of courtesy. "Out! I have work to do, go get drunk by yourself and stop _harassing_ me!" 

 

“Six. Five.” Sinbad raises an eyebrow, far from dissuaded by seeing some actual _life_ from Ja’far for the first time in months, ignoring the book as if it’s no more than featherweight.

 

"Fine! _Fine,_ I'll go drinking with you!" Angrily, Ja'far snuffs out the candle on his desk. "But let me get back to work afterwards, _Your Majesty._ " 

 

“Of course!” Sinbad beams, considering this a great success, all told. True, nothing’s fixed yet, but a night of drinking can’t _hurt_. At least he’ll be getting some nutrients into Ja’far’s system, and he’s never been one to shy away from the healthy attributes of grapes. “Come, let’s find the best tavern in town!”

 

 _I'm going to kill you in your sleep_ , Ja'far mentally grinds out, glaring a hole into Sinbad's back. "Fine." Ugh. At least he's sure Kouen is in decent enough hands with Judal around for the night. Small blessings, that. 


	2. Chapter 2

The Crossed Swords is probably Sinbad’s favorite tavern in Sindria proper, not least because the ale is stronger than anywhere else on the island. What the barman’s secret is, he has no idea, but just a half dozen pints usually has him on the ground instead of his usual….well, _more than that._ And the miracle is, it tastes no different, so Sinbad is certain he’ll be able to get Ja’far to drink just a couple mugs full. That, with any luck, will be all he needs to _relax_ a bit.

 

The first is placed in front of him, and Sinbad clinks his own mug against Ja’far’s. “You deserve to celebrate,” he says firmly. “You’ve worked very hard, and we made a goddamned country out of nothing. We both deserve a treat.”

 

"You drink every day," is Ja'far's immediate protest, but he sighs and draws his mug back to take a sip all the same. It doesn't taste like much to him, but it burns on the way down, characteristic enough of alcohol. "How is this anything resembling a _treat?_ " 

 

“Because it’s delicious,” Sinbad says firmly, making sure he’s in earshot of the brewer, “and because it’s taking a break from work to socialize. That, my good man, is what a treat is. How would you treat yourself, back in Kou?”

 

Ja'far frowns, his head tilting to the side as he thinks of anything marginally resembling that description of 'treat.'

 

Ah. 

 

Well.

 

"… You don't want to know," he wryly replies, and takes another, longer swig from his mug.

 

Sinbad’s eyebrows raise, and he drinks as well, making sure he’s keeping up. Not that he wants to get drunk right now, but he doesn’t want to be too far behind, or everything’s quite boring. “I really, really do. Is it something you’re not getting here? That might make you relax.”

 

"It's…" Ja'far sighs, waving a hand in dismissal. "If I tell you, you're going to start reverting back to your old nickname for me." 

 

Sinbad frowns, taking a long swig and topping up Ja’far’s glass, no matter how little he’s had. “We’re past that. I wouldn’t have you in my bed if I thought such things of you.”

 

That's a cue to drink if he's ever seen one, and honestly, with the nature of this conversation, Ja'far feels all the more inclined to do so. "So you say."

 

“Ja’far.” Sinbad reaches over, laying a hand over Ja’far’s, holding his eyes. “Whatever it is, my only sadness is that I’m not giving you what you need. I won’t say a word.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows arch, his expression impassive. "Right. And if I told you my previously favored relaxation technique was rolling around in a bed with three Kou Princes as their favorite fucktoy?" 

 

Sinbad shifts slightly in his seat, reaches for his mug, and takes a long swallow. “I regret to inform you,” he says very seriously, “I don’t think I’ll be able to import that with Judal’s peaches.”

 

"I'm well aware," is the deadpan retort to follow, and Ja'far drinks again. "Really, it's fine. Sex isn't exactly going to fix my current type of stress, and at the risk of that nickname again, I'd rather refrain."

 

Sinbad snorts, leaning back in his chair, the front two legs coming off the ground. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t call you anything when you were spit-roasted between me and Masrur. I _like_ hearing that you’ve enjoyed yourself. Hell, find a few men you like and we’ll all have a party in the throne room. That doesn’t make you a whore, it makes you a man who knows what he likes, instead of a machine who only knows work.”

 

"It's not… it doesn't _work_ like that," Ja'far mutters, a little more than annoyed now that it has been brought up and into the open. Drinking more seems to be the only solution, obviously. "It's a lot more than just 'finding a few men I like.'"

 

“Oh? Do they have to be princes?” Sinbad grins. “Sharrkan would count, I think. And you could invite Kouen, I assume he was one of them.”

 

"Because Kouen looks _so_ very up to fucking me within an inch of my life," Ja'far growls, just _barely_ resisting kicking underneath the table and tipping Sinbad's chair over further. "And Sharrkan's basically still a _child_ , don't be disgusting."

 

“Kouen will be well enough by morning, with Judal cuddled up to him,” Sinbad says with a wave of his hand. “And if Sharrkan won’t do, I can find another prince. How do you feel about traveling to Partevia, I can get you a king.”

 

"Just quit it already," Ja'far sighs, and downing back another long swallow is especially refreshing this time. "I don't need it, I don't _want it_. That was years ago, anyway. A person's tastes can change."

 

Sinbad glares at him, taking another gulp, filling Ja’far’s mug up from the pitcher once more. _We’ll see how you feel after a few more drinks._ “So tell me something else you enjoy.”

 

"Long walks on the beach, strong tea, and extensive amounts of paperwork finished and filed."

 

Sinbad levels an even gaze at his advisor, 300% convinced he’s being fucked with. “Say that again and I’ll make you take a long walk on the beach with me.”

 

"Clothed, I hope." Ja'far sips at his drink. "I might drown you, watch out."

 

“Ah, you like _clothed_ long walks on the beach. Do you prefer it that way with your princes, too?” He leans in, eyes lidding. “Do you just like it when they yank your robes up and bare you for their own pleasure?”

 

Ja'far _does_ pride himself on keeping a straight face, and furthermore, sliding his foot underneath the table to threateningly poke at Sinbad's chair, tipping it back a bit more. "Why are my sexual preferences so _interesting?_ "

 

Sinbad can’t really help himself. He wraps one hand around that foot, bringing it up slightly between his legs, letting Ja’far feel the swell of him already. “Maybe because thinking about them makes me like this.”

 

"I--" There goes his straight face, especially when coupled with nearly choking on his next mouthful of ale. Ja'far glares, wiping his mouth as he flushes in spite of himself. _Honestly_. Sinbad used to call _him_ a whore, when he does things like this in plain sight? "You're awful," he mutters, though it _is_ sort of arousing, feeling the hardening line of Sinbad's cock underneath his foot. "I never should have told you about that." 

 

“Why?” Sinbad murmurs, letting his hips shift forward a bit, pressing slowly against Ja’far’s foot. “Maybe you’re afraid I’ll give you what you want.” He can imagine it too clearly, holding Ja’far down and shoving deep into him, someone else in his mouth, hearing nothing but sloppy sucking noises and whimpers. “Maybe you’re afraid you’ll like it too much.”

 

Ja'far's mouth opens and closes, swallowing slowly as he let himself sink forward into his chair a bit more, his foot pressing harder between Sinbad's legs. "I don't… really want anyone else right now, though," he mutters, biting his lip and trying not to squirm in his seat when he squeezes his thighs together on reflex. Sinbad is more than enough on a good day--though admittedly, _nothing_ has been a good day lately. _Still_. He's enough, it's enough, especially when he can feel how hard the man is underneath his foot. 

 

“No? No one else? You seem...hmm.” Sinbad lets his hand trail up Ja’far’s leg, feeling the taut muscle there, squeezing slightly. “Less than eager to have me in your bed as of late.”

 

"That's… I've been distracted." And it's hardly a _lie_. Ja'far sucks in a breath that is supposed to be calming, only ends up riling him up more instead when it hitches in his throat, and he side-eyes his drink. No, his head is already swimming a little. He's had more than enough. His legs squeeze a bit tighter together. "It has nothing to do with you."

 

“No?” Sinbad lets Ja’far’s leg go, easing it back to the floor. He fills Ja’far’s mug again, and leans forward, looking quite seriously at his face. “I’m starting to wonder if you regret coming with me, to Sindria.”

 

 _That_ takes him off-guard. Ja'far blinks back at him, confusion open on his face. "… Why would I regret that?" _Where else would I have_ gone _?_

 

“You don’t seem to enjoy my company at all, the last several months,” Sinbad says quietly, not moving away. “You don’t seem proud of what we’ve built. You don’t seem satisfied with...anything, really. You only ever seem angry, frustrated, and alone.”

 

Ja'far blinks back at him a moment longer, and then drinks. In _earnest_.

 

"That has nothing to do with you." He sounds like a broken record for sure, but it's _true_. "It's… nothing is better than seeing you happy, and proud of your country. I just wonder sometimes… if I was actually meant to be here with you--if I was meant to do something other than kill people for the rest of my life." Ja'far's fingers squeeze tight about his mug. "The dreams I've been having lately… they just remind me of everything before. I don't _want_ to go back to that, I don't, but I can't just… shake it off, like you do with things. I'm not good at that." 

 

Sinbad looks at him, more curious than anything. “You think I shake it off? I carry _everything_ with me, always. Everyone I’ve killed. Everyone I’ve lost. Everyone I haven’t been able to save. Everything I’ve done, above and beyond all else. It isn’t about letting it go, Ja’far. It’s about living in spite of your memories.”

 

"Then I'm not good at that, either." Ja'far heaves a shrug, and then downs back the rest of his mug in one, solid gulp. "You also have lots of… good, _normal_ things that have happened to you, you know."

 

“And you,” Sinbad points out with a grin, “have been lovingly kidnapped by a pirate, and have been the head advisor of a budding nation, and have at least a few people in this world who would die for you.” He reaches up, touching Ja’far’s hair. “Is that so bad a life, my friend?”

 

"That's not…" Sinbad doesn't _get it._ It's probably better that he doesn't, to be honest, because who can understand someone that wishes a good portion of their life was wiped from their memories? Maybe Sinbad can _carry everything with him_ , but Ja'far wants no part of that, and even with the past couple of years… "All of that is very good," he quietly says instead, pushing his mug towards Sinbad. "I'm hardly arguing that." 

 

Sinbad shoves the mug back firmly, and even adds a bit more ale to the top. “I think,” he says, “what I don’t understand is how you can feel you were fated to work with Al-Sarmen. Isn’t that against their entire principle?”

 

"Sort of a double standard, isn't it?" Ja'far's expression twists wry as he takes the mug back. "But I don't think I was fated to work with them. I think maybe I just wasn't good enough to find a place anywhere else, sometimes."

 

“I don’t accept that.” Sinbad shrugs. “And unless you want to hear me talking every day about how I think you’re good enough and intelligent and the right man for the job, you’d best come around to my way of thinking. Or you’ll be annoyed.”

 

"You always annoy me anyway," Ja'far grumbles, taking another drink. Yep, definitely feeling a bit tipsy. Fantastic. "The _problem_ is you don't have any clue what being part of Al-Sarmen is…was _like_."

 

“So tell me.” Sinbad lets his hand fall down to Ja’far’s shoulder, rubbing in slow circles. “Don’t shut everyone out of your private hell. I’d walk through any fire for you.”

 

 _It isn't exactly a conversation for a night spent drinking._ "… I was lucky, being loaned to the Kou Empire." And yet, there goes his mouth running anyway. Sinbad has a way of making that happen. "Even if that's all it was--literally, being loaned, with a contract and an expiration date. It was still a dozen times better than staying within their ranks nonstop, curdling in a vat of black rukh and waiting to be tossed out to kill someone new. And because I was smart and had half a penchant for an independent thought, they were especially _careful_ in their methods of making sure I obeyed. Do you really want to hear the things that the Dollmaker does, too?"

 

Ja'far takes another, long drink of his ale. "Anyway--you seem to have this idea that I had friends, or at least, _comrades_ within the empire, or even within Al-Sarmen's ranks. You're wrong about that, too. _Everyone_ is disposable. If how quickly they threw me away once I failed to keep Judal under wraps wasn't proof enough, then hopefully what happened to the Kou Empire recently is. The slightest bit of camaraderie I shared with Kouen was considered an idiotic move on all parts, but that was all mostly because he and his cousins and brothers couldn't understand what I was there for. I was a tool, not an advisor, not a brother-at-arms." His eyes slide sideways toward the other man. "I'm not whining, and I'm not _moping,_ even though I'm sure you think I _enjoy_ lingering in all of this. But _you_ can try living like that for over a decade, and tell me you'd like to carry that around with you, or even that it's easy just to shove it away and _really_ be someone's advisor or lover or even just a _person_."

 

Sinbad is silent for a long, long moment. He looks at Ja’far, really _looks_ , and sees the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, less as marks of surviving (how he’s always seen his own) and more of marks of _pain_. He lets his hand fall, this time to Ja’far’s lap, and squeezes his hand, tugging him closer. “I don’t have that same pain,” he says quietly, hand strong and warm. “And I’ve never doubted that yours is great. All I can say is this. There’s only one good thing about a bad past, and that is that it’s _past_. You don’t have to carry it, or shove it--it’s over, and you couldn’t take it with you if you tried. No matter what you do, those days _can’t_ happen over again. You can either be stuck back there, with all the people that made them hell….”

 

He gives a small, genuine, hopeful smile. “Or you can walk into the light with me.”

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, his fingers squeezing slowly within Sinbad's hold. "It would be one thing if you were _right_ about it not being able to happen again. But, Sin… those dreams I'm having lately, I _told you_ , they're not just random. They're deliberately toying with me again, and I'm just…" An exasperated sound, and he drops his head down into his other hand. "I'm really, _really_ tired, and I'm also certain I burn far too easily to let you drag me anywhere too well-lit." 

 

“If it happens again,” Sinbad says gently,  “we’ll face it again. Like we did last time. I’m not saying nothing can ever happen again, I just mean that at least now, we know we’ve beaten it before. Know this: if you were still their plaything the way you fear, Kouen and Judal and I would all be dead.” He raises an eyebrow. “Can you deny that?”

 

"I nearly cut my own foot off to stop myself--that doesn't mean I didn't still have the inclination to serve Al-Sarmen." _And a lot of good I've done Kouen._ Ja'far bites at his lip, chewing on it anxiously. "Could you honestly say you'd trust me with your life?"

 

Words don’t convince Ja’far of very much. So instead of words, Sinbad picks up an eating knife, wraps Ja’far’s hand around the hilt, and guides the point to his own throat before dropping his hands. “You tell me.”

 

Ja'far's fingers tremble before he draws his hand away, setting the knife down. "This is _different_. You _know_ it is." 

 

“It isn’t to me.” Sinbad sighs, raking a hand back through his hair. “I trust you every day. I put my country in your hands, and _leave_ it there. The one thing you shouldn’t doubt is that I trust you.”

 

"And if someone from Al-Sarmen was _right there_ , breathing down my neck?" Ja'far shakes his head, fairly certain he doesn't even want to know the answer. "Can we just… stop talking about this? I'm tired and drunk and I just want to curl up somewhere warm with you and stop thinking for five minutes because I really, really hate everything. Except you. And ink. Sometimes." 

 

Sinbad picks Ja’far up around the waist, settling him onto his lap. “You need more flesh on you,” he murmurs, tucking Ja’far’s face into his chest. “Makes it nicer to curl up with. Though at least you’re not as bitey as Judal.”

 

"You don't like fat people." Ja'far's head immediately butts against Sinbad's chest. "And don't compare me to Judal." 

 

“I don’t like _lazy_ people,” Sinbad corrects, stroking Ja’far’s hair. “You’re the least lazy person I know. Such a shame, you’d be lewd as anything with your thighs all soft and your ass round and sweet in my lap.”

 

"It's all already a lot bigger than the rest of me," Ja'far mutters, eyes lidding. "Once, I had a mission where I had to dress as a dancer to infiltrate. Not one question about whether or not I was a woman, not _one_."

 

The mental image hits Sinbad like a tidal wave, and he groans, shifting under Ja’far’s ass, uncomfortably aware of how fast that makes him harden. “I, ah. Hmm. Would have paid money to see that. Don’t suppose you still have the outfit?”

 

"It was years ago." Ja'far doesn't mention that he sort of shredded the thing afterwards on principle. Better not to even touch on that, not when Sinbad is really, pleasantly warm, and a distraction from a dozen unpleasant thoughts that had been brewing before. Ja'far wriggles closer, sliding his arms up around Sinbad's neck as his face buries there in short order. "Why are we still _here_ , and not back in your _room?_ "

 

“That is a _damn_ good question.” Sinbad stands in short order, setting Ja’far onto his feet. “Can you walk? I’ll be groping you too much if I try and carry you.”

 

Ja'far tilts his head contemplatively at that, and takes a wobbly step before rocking backwards to flop against Sinbad's side. "How am _I_ the drunk one and you're all-- _not_." Ah, well. Being groped isn't bad at all.

 

Sinbad takes that as permission. He takes a lot of things as permission.

 

He lifts Ja’far, hoisting him up onto one hip, a broad hand squeezing Ja’far’s ass with a sort of lecherous glee. “Tolerance. Come out drinking with me more often, and you’ll be as strong in spirit as I!”

 

"I'm _very_ tolerant," Ja'far protests as he wriggles his way against Sinbad's side in response, flopping his arms around his shoulders rather contently. "You probably… spiked my drink, or something."

 

“Mmm, yes, that’s probably it,” Sinbad agrees, leaning down to lay a quick bite to Ja’far’s shoulder. “So you’d rather choose to believe you couldn’t see a man slip something into your drink?”

 

"Tired," Ja'far reminds him, deciding that one of Sinbad's earrings is fair game for _biting_ , though it's a sloppy tug at best. "Distracted."

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then shuts it when he remembers that Ja’far hates being compared to Judal. The shivery, excited feeling he gets from having Ja’far’s mouth so close is better than any joke he could make, after all. “Then I suppose this is as good a chance as any to take advantage of you, hmm?”

 

Ja'far considers that, then nods, perhaps a little too eager about the idea. "You already kidnapped me once, or so you like to call it," he sighs, nuzzling his way into Sinbad's neck. "Do it again."

 

Without preamble, Sinbad abandons the idea of carrying Ja’far back up to the palace, slinging him over one shoulder instead and breaking into a run, heading for the shoreline and a small sheltering alcove of a cave, feet warmed by the sand until they hit warm, smooth rock. “Maybe I miss being a pirate.”

 

"You're an idiot," Ja'far bemoans, hardly sounding annoyed as he paws lazily at Sinbad's shoulders in the process of trying to wriggle free of the man's grasp. "Put me down already-- _not_ on the sand, I don't want that all up in my hair and I _definitely_ don't want all that grit in strange places."

 

Sinbad closes his eyes for a moment, and Focalor’s power swirls, gusting in a lazy circle, brushing the rock free of any sand. He lets it fade, and a single black feather floats down to the rock, just as he lays Ja’far down on it. “Complain some more,” he advises, hiking up Ja’far’s robes. “I like it when you’re whiny when I fuck you.”

 

Ja'far tries to shoot him a look that he hopes is annoyed, but it's easier said than done when his breath is already short and his hands already clawing their way down Sinbad's back as his legs splay wide. "I was _hoping_ ," he grumbles, "that you'd sit me on your lap. Instead you just wasted magoi for _nothing_ \--" 

 

Sinbad turns Ja’far over without hesitation, getting him up onto his hands and knees. “Quiet,” he murmurs, and shoves a pair of fingers into his mouth, stroking them against his tongue. “I just want to take what I want from you tonight.”

 

A low, rumbling groan pulls from his throat and Ja'far exhales a whining breath through his nose, his cheeks hollowing as his eyes lid and he laps at Sinbad's fingers, sucking sloppily. "L-let me… ride you later, then," he huffs out, tilting his head back so that Sinbad's fingers slide out slightly. "Always goes in deeper, and I like it when I feel really, really full--" 

 

Sinbad laughs low in his chest, sliding an arm down around Ja’far’s waist to pull him up and back, back pressed against Sinbad’s torso. “Don’t you worry about that,” he murmurs, dragging his hands down Ja’far’s sides, hiking his robes up to his waist. “I’ll be so deep inside you you’ll be begging me to be more gentle.” He presses a hot open-mouthed kiss to Ja’far’s neck, then adds, “And you can ride me later, of course.”

 

"'m not going to beg… about something like that," Ja'far groans, his head lolling back to press against Sinbad's shoulder, wriggling within his hold to better grind his ass down and back, sliding against the hard line of Sinbad's cock with a needy, broken whine escaping. He reaches a hand back, trying to grab for Sinbad's hip and pull him _closer_. "In, put it _in_."

 

“Sounds like begging,” Sinbad says under his breath, pausing only to part his own robes, tipping out a generous amount of oil from the vial around his neck. It had been a good and practical idea on the ship, and hell, it’s never served him poorly to have some always on hand. The fact of how _eager_ Ja’far is makes Sinbad groan, and he doesn’t wait to slide in hard, burying himself to the root in one brutally fast thrust, stealing his own breath at the sudden slick _tightness_ of it.

 

Ja'far _sags_ with a shuddering moan, his chest heaving as his body squeezes _tight_ around the other man's cock, scrabbling fingers going limp with the shivery ache that shakes him down to his bones and leaves him pleasantly mindless, except with the thought to writhe his way back, his eyes rolling back as he does. "Move, please, please, _please_ \--" 

 

_You say that like I have any other choice._

 

Sinbad’s hands are strong on Ja’far’s waist, mouth hard and hot on his neck, and every roll of his hips is a hard, intense burst of movement, as if he could somehow _fuck_ the sadness, the doubt, the self-hatred out of Ja’far. Hell, nothing else has worked. He might as well get some _pleasure_ out of it, he thinks wryly, watching the smaller man shudder and groan.

 

Ja'far's fingers manage to grab onto some of Sinbad's hair that pools over his shoulder, clinging to it, using it as some sort of a lifeline as he sags forward, head bowing as his back arches and his hips twitch helplessly back into every thrust. God, if nothing else, this makes his mind go so perfectly blank, every slick, hard slide of Sinbad's cock inside of him, stretching him and making him feel so full that there's no _helping_ the groans and the lending of himself to the simple, carnal movements of their bodies. "J-just…" _Use me, make me_ your _toy_ \--

 

Every tug of Ja’far’s hands, every grind of the rough stone against his knees, every slap of his hips against Ja’far’s just makes Sinbad want _more_ \--and because he’s king, and because he’s the kind of person who takes the more he wants, he simply takes it, shoving in as hard as he wants, forcing Ja’far forward with the weight of each thrust. “So tight,” he grunts, and hauls Ja’far back even harder, getting his mouth right at the smaller man’s ear. “I bet you’d take someone else right now,” he mutters, biting the shell of that ear. “You’d take a few more men inside you now, wouldn’t you?”

 

Ja'far _whines_ , his cock throbbing hard at the simple _thought_ of that. It's all too easy to imagine Sinbad holding him still while someone _else_ tries to get their cock inside of him, when someone else pries his mouth open and stuffs theirs into his mouth--"I…" A hard, ragged swallow and gasp for breath, and Ja'far settles for nodding, thoughtless as his hips grind back, back arched into a tight bow when all he wants is _more_ of Sinbad's cock inside of him, his body a greedy, slick clench around him. "L-love it… when you just… use me--"

 

“You like the thought of that, don’t you?” Sinbad breathes, feeling the way Ja’far squeezes down. “I bet you’d like it more than you want to admit.” As easy as it would be to _lose himself_ , this is about Ja’far, not about himself, so instead of slowing, rocking in deep and hard in striking slaps of his hips, he keeps up the pace, drilling in rough and fast. He has to leave room for a few more orgasms tonight, after all.

 

Sinbad is never, _ever_ fair, and now is no exception.

 

He's amazed he has held out this long, what with how his mind is so muddled with alcohol and his body all the more eager to give in. Ja'far's voice breaks on something close to a sob, his eyes fluttering helplessly as he clings to Sinbad's hair with one hand, curls a fist against the rock with the other, and it's nowhere _near_ enough of a grounding force to keep him from coming hard, choking on his own breath as he spills hot and messy over the stone underneath him, every muscle a trembling, shivering thing.

 

Sinbad starts to wonder how long Ja’far will be able to take it, being fucked rough and hard on his hands and knees.

 

Time to find out.

 

Not for nothing had he kept from getting drunk tonight, and Sinbad uses every bit of the endurance he’s built up, every bit of the stamina he has to keep fucking Ja’far, feeling the oil wear away until it _burns_ , and damn them both, he kind of likes that too. “Just tell me,” he mutters in Ja’far’s ear, hips slapping in hard and rough through the shake of his orgasm, “when you can’t take anymore.”

 

Ja'far's head shakes helplessly, his entire body boneless as he sinks down onto his elbows. His knees want to buckle, too, and god knows they probably would, if not for Sinbad's cock so hard inside of him, fucking him hard and _forcing_ him to stay up on his knees, no matter how his body tells him repeatedly how spent he already is. "Just… just want you to come inside me," he groans, body shuddering anew at the very thought. "O-or on me--don't care--"

 

Sinbad slams in hard, moving one hand up to Ja’far’s hair, yanking him back onto every thrust. “Didn’t ask you what you _want_ ,” he growls, vision starting to gray at the sides. “Tell me when you _can’t take it_ , and I’ll show you why you should _love_ being my whore.” Big talk, from a man who’s barely holding on to sanity by the tips of his fingernails.

 

The sound that leaves his throat is more _mewl_ than anything else, and Ja'far chokes on his own breath, his chest heaving from the effort it takes to keep forcing air into his lungs. Like this, it feels like Sinbad is even _deeper_ inside of him, the stretch of his cock all the more mind-numbing, and Ja'far barely manages a nod, desperate and fast. "C-can't--" _God, don't stop, don't, just keep this up all night and let me be bruised and useless in the morning_ \--" _Please_ \--"

 

Sinbad pauses for a fraction of a second, then shakes his head. “Not good enough. You still have some left.” He grabs Ja’far’s keffiyeh, wads it up into a ball, and stuffs it into his mouth, shoving Ja’far down until his chest is on the stone, only his hips held up by Sinbad’s hands, the only sound the soft _slap slap slap_ of their hips together.

 

That alone _shouldn't_ make him want to come again, let alone so fast, but it nearly _does_.

 

A throughly muffled groan is lost around the material stuffed into his mouth--how he is he supposed to tell Sinbad it's _too much_ now? Maybe it's even better that he _can't_ , that he's entirely helpless. Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut at that, the next ragged inhale through his nose not quite enough when he's certain he'll _never_ be able to catch his breath, not when Sinbad is holding him down and fucking him like he's just a hole, and so he just sags down without another ounce of protest, twitching and aching and teetering mindlessly between too much and _perfect_. 

 

Now, Sinbad takes his time.

 

He slows for a little while, sliding in and out with even, measured strokes, tipping on a bit more oil for his own convenience, hissing at the ease with which he glides back in, and he trails a hand down Ja’far’s chest to wrap around his cock, stroking in time with each steady thrust.

 

He can’t keep it up long, not when Ja’far is a shivering, twitching, aching thing and he himself is _painfully_ hard, and before long he’s pounding in faster than ever, leaning down and biting _hard_. “Just….a little….more….”

 

Ja'far's replies are broken, muffled little noises, the twitching spasms and clenches of his own body far from within his control when he's so _thoroughly_ fucked, used to the edge of aching soreness that he's _certain_ he hasn't felt in ages. His eyes roll back when Sinbad bites, the stifled, approving whine in his throat coming out breathy and high, and his own hips rut down, grinding into the calloused warmth of Sinbad's hand as much as he tries to arch his back and take every inch of the other man's cock, no matter how the stretch _burns_ now, the slick drag of it all enough to make his eyes cross and vision blur at the edges. 

 

Ja’far has come to the other side, Sinbad thinks, past pleasure into pain and _back_ , something he hasn’t seen from anyone in a while, hadn’t recognized the need for in years. He feels a bit stupid, but then, Ja’far’s hardly been _forthcoming_ , and there’s time to make up for it now anyway. His fingers dig in hard, and he leans forward to hiss, “Come for me one more time, and I’ll let you go.”

 

The next sound that escapes him is a broken, helpless one, probably close to a sob if it weren't so thoroughly muffled. He's not even sure if he _can_ , no matter how hard his cock is again and so soon, no matter how his body just wants to submit and collapse and give _in_ \--

 

Giving in. God help him, but that's a nice concept. Ja'far's fingers ball into fists, his toes curling so tight that he's sure his feet will be cramping for hours after this, his body a tight, shivering little bow as he spills, tears blurring his vision as he trembles and twitches long, _long_ after he actually loses himself. 

 

Only when Ja’far is stilled, when Sinbad starts to think he’s _truly_ finished, does he finally let the tide swamp him, too. 

 

He doesn’t expect it to be quite so _intense_ , and he shouts as he comes, lurching in _hard_ , body covering Ja’far’s as he spasms, sharp cries leaving his throat, nothing like what he sounds like when he’s in _control_ , and he sags down, spilled deep inside Ja’far, every muscle drained and limp.

 

Ja'far's legs buckle once and for all, leaving him to flop uselessly down, pinned underneath the weight of Sinbad's body and right then, _nothing_ feels better. He huffs out a breath through his nose, making absolutely no attempt to move, no matter the _ache_ that slides up his spine, the sticky mess beneath him and inside of him, and with nothing coherent to say, there's no point in spitting out his makeshift gag, either. Well-- _leave me to die_ comes to mind. 

 

Sinbad makes no attempt to move, except to bat the keffiyeh out of Ja’far’s mouth, just in case he chokes on it. “Not moving. Don’t ask.”

 

"Only move," Ja'far dimly mutters, voice decidedly rough around the edges, "if you're going to roll over and pull me onto your cock again."

 

Sinbad blinks. “Now?” Shit, he supposes he _could_.

 

"Five seconds." Maybe his legs will work by then enough to keep himself upright. Maybe not. "Gonna run out of oil," Ja'far mumbles. "Should've done the bedroom after all."

 

“No,” Sinbad says firmly, settling on top of Ja’far, and just to prove that he can, guides his softening cock up against Ja’far’s ass, rubbing slowly to encourage the lazy thing. “You’d have been worried about what someone would think. Here you can scream all you want. I’ll just fuck you without oil, you like it when it hurts.”

 

"To a _point_ ," he groans, dropping his face back down into his arms with a shudder. "Screaming doesn't matter much when you gag me, either."

 

“Still. We’re truly alone here.” Sinbad lets just the head, still only half-hard at best, slide against the slick, dripping hole. “Besides, you’re plenty wet inside.”

 

"True enough," Ja'far gasps out, his hips twitching back with a ragged little moan. "Ahh… maybe… longer than five seconds…"

 

Sinbad trails a hand down, letting the tip of his thumb slide inside instead, feeling how hot, how _sore_ he must be. “Mmm. You really do feel used. What if I took you even while you said not to?”

 

Ja'far bites at his lip, his eyes fluttering as he tries to _think_ with his body seems so intent on twitching at just that one little touch, clenching around just that bit of Sinbad's finger as his cock weakly stirs. "… Good," is all he manages to choke out. Maybe a little better than good.

 

Five seconds indeed. Sinbad feels himself hardening, and he levers himself slowly up, one hand pressing down between Ja’far’s shoulderblades. “Ahh. You like that. So, go on.” He lets his thumb slide further in, and purrs, “Tell me you don’t want it.”

 

It's easy, when just the stretch of Sinbad's thumb stings, and trying to imagine his cock going inside right now makes Ja'far's muscles bunch up even tighter. "Just… wait," he rasps out, managing a weak, shivery wriggle upward, convincingly away from Sinbad's hand. "Can't--not yet--"

 

At this point, Sinbad isn’t even sure Ja’far is acting--beyond that, he’s not even sure it would make a difference to him. All he knows is that somewhere deep inside, there’s a part of Ja’far that needs things, and that’s the part of him Sinbad wants to get at. “Too bad,” he murmurs, and it’s easy, pathetically easy to hold Ja’far down, making sure there’s nowhere for him to go away, pulling his thumb away and replacing that gentle pressure with his cock. “You sure you don’t want this?”

 

Ja'far whines, the sound a broken, breathless thing as he _squirms_ , breath choked in his throat when his body opens, no matter how _unwillingly_ , around the thick head of Sinbad's cock. "Too _much_ ," he groans, burying his face down into one arm, and god, it might as well be, no matter his acting. Even if he's still slick inside, he's _sore_ , and it makes his chest heave as he bites his lip, all just to take that much.

 

“Good.” It’s a struggle, for a moment, no matter how slick and easy his cock goes in, and Sinbad’s hands clench at the _sting_ of it against his cock. It’s worth it, he knows, and he lets the head slide in, a low moan in his chest. “God, I don’t think I could keep it out of you, you’re so loose,” he half-taunts, half-groans. “All wet and dripping and fucked out.”

 

Ja'far's breath hiccups. "That's…" _Your fault, you did this to me_ \--all on the tip of his tongue, useless, defensive protests when his body twinges and twitches and shudders. He swallows, breath ragged as he tries again to wriggle up, away from the press of Sinbad's cock inside of him, that aching _sting_ that makes him want to writhe. "Please--just--"

 

“Please?” Sinbad slides forward a couple more inches, back out completely, then in again a bit further, letting Ja’far feel that first tense, stretching slide all over again. “You’re still moving, obviously I’m not fucking you hard enough.” _If you don’t sleep tonight after this is all over_ , Sinbad thinks dryly, _I’m going to throw myself in the ocean._

 

"I c-can't--ahh…" Ja'far bites his lip until it bleeds, the shudder and twitch that slides up and through his body making his fingers curl against the stone underneath him in a weak scrabble for purchase. "Don't--at least… give me a little bit longer, I can't _take it_ \--" Babbling the words out at this point makes him wonder if he's even _acting_ , and Ja'far trembles, chest heaving from the effort.

 

“You _are_ taking it.” Sinbad pulls out, slides slowly back in. He pulls out, and slides slowly back in, sighing out a long breath between his teeth. It’s not entirely comfortable for him, and his muscles ache and twinge, over-tired and over-raw. He tells them to shut up, that this is good exercise, and his cock heartily agrees. “Look at you, what a good boy, taking all of that in your tight little hole. I bet there’s a part of you that wants it, hmm?”

 

A last, aching quiver, and Ja'far sags down, giving into the urge to just collapse and lie there and _take_ , no matter how it makes him feel all the more weak and helpless. That's surprisingly a good thing, or at least that's what his body tells him as he chokes down a whimper and buries his face into the back of his arm as he shakes his head, sucking in a ragged breath and trying not to think about how hard his cock is again, his hips twitching down helplessly against that rock. 

 

“It’s good like this, isn’t it?” Sinbad whispers, leaning down so his body covers every part of Ja’far’s smaller frame, a warm, solid weight atop the younger man. God, it’s hard to remember they’d ever been enemies, not when he’s working so hard to reduce Ja’far to nothing but a whimpering, twitching, helpless creature wracked by pleasure. “Giving in, letting me do whatever I want to your body? It’s good, isn’t it?”

 

Ja'far _thinks_ he nods, no matter how his wires are crossed so thoroughly, no matter how his mind is so focused on how deep Sinbad's cock slides in no matter the resisting clench of his body around it that adds an edge to everything and makes him huff and groan and _squirm_. "S…still… too much," he mumbles dimly, squeezing his eyes shut. "Feels like you're gonna break me--"

 

“Maybe I am.” The idea is sort of appealing. In a metaphorical sense, of course, he has no desire to actually cause Ja’far any lasting harm. He slides in _deep_ with the next thrust, holding there for a count of five before sliding slowly out, hissing at the oddly gritty drag of his cock inside, not the smooth slickness of oil, but the filthy, wet slide that reminds him how thoroughly Ja’far’s been used. “Do you want me to break you, Ja’far?”

 

"I--"

 

His _voice_ breaks, a broken, hitching sound caught up in his throat, and there's no _way_ he can answer, not when he's so full of Sinbad's cock. Ja'far thinks he whines some kind of assent, no matter how he weakly wriggles, squirms with the too-deep press of Sinbad inside of him. _Please_ he wants to beg, but the word is stuck in his throat, the little backward twitch of his hips all he can manage in encouragement when he's so uselessly, entirely _spent_. 

 

“ ‘Break me’,” Sinbad whispers into Ja’far’s ear, breath hot as it ghosts over the shell of it, and he drags a hand up Ja’far’s chest, pinching a nipple. “That’s all you have to say, and I’ll do it.” 

 

Most of him isn’t even sure what he’s saying anymore, everything sour-sweet with every slide of body against body, the only sound their heavy breathing and the crash of the waves, sweat trickling down Sinbad’s back. “ ‘Break me’...I bet it would feel good to say, don’t you?”

 

"Already feels… like you're doing it," Ja'far whispers, the added pinch of Sinbad's fingers like electricity, making him start and jolt with his chest heaving anew. Sinbad is _heavy_ against him, the throbbing pulse of his cock enough to hurt now, but that doesn't stop him. "I…p-please, just--just do it, can't take it anymore--"

 

“Say it.” Sinbad’s mouth nips sharply at Ja’far’s skin and he pulls out once more, turning Ja’far onto his back on the stone, spreading his legs wider than they should probably go, stretching him obscenely. “Tell me, now, and it can all be over.” 

 

He slides back in hard, hips nestled against Ja’far’s, breathing heavy. “If you don’t, I’ll stop right now.” _Please, just let it end, for both of us, we_ need _this..._

 

Ja'far's mouth falls open, his head rolling back and back arching no matter how weak he feels, the sudden splay of his legs and fullness all _over_ again stealing his breath and words away. He tries for nodding, tries for grabbing at Sinbad's back, muscles a shivering, trembling clench all the way down to his toes, but he knows it isn't good enough, _knows_ Sinbad won't listen or pay attention unless--"Break me." It's little more than a rasp, a choked, whining whisper.

 

God, Sinbad hopes it’s enough.

 

He moves, hard and fast and brutally rough, setting a grueling pace neither of them will be able to keep up for more than a scant few moments, and bends, closing his teeth over an earlobe before slamming deep inside, spilling himself for the second time, growling with his last bit of sanity, “Finish it, love.”

 

It _hurts_ , feeling Sinbad come inside him for a second time, everything far too slick and stinging and making him twinge and shudder and writhe partially _away_ in protest. _Everything_ hurts, from the burning in his thighs from how wide they're spread, the ache of his muscles at being so spent, so damnably overused, and Ja'far barely has the mind to lend his body to the upward arch of his back, only a few weak, trembling ruts of his hips against the hard line of Sinbad's stomach needed before his own cock twitches, helpless to disobey when he _needs_ that release. 

 

It's that last little _snap_ of tension that leaves him collapsing back as if his strings are cut, and Ja'far exhales a long, wavering groan, over-tired, over-spent tears barely blinked away as his chest heaves from the effort it takes to stay _conscious_. "…H..hurts," he manages to whisper, grabbing helplessly to Sinbad's hair, the last lifeline he can really find within reach.

 

“Shh. I know.”

 

Sinbad bites his lip as he reaches down, wincing as he eases his cock free, a little disgusted by the way it flops uselessly out. _Come on, you could have done better than that ten years ago_. He leans down, placing a soft kiss on each of Ja’far’s closed eyes, gathering the man’s slender form into his arms. “Come on, I’m taking you to bed. You’re safe, you can sleep in my arms if you want.”

 

"Do it again… in the morning," Ja'far mumbles, thinking he grabs on tightly to Sinbad when all he really manages is a sort of useless flop forward, head-butting the man's shoulder as his head lolls. "If I'm not sick. Or dying." And that's the last semi-coherent thing he manages before his world slips pleasantly to black, his body limp as a ragdoll in Sinbad's hold.

 

“If we’re both very lucky,” Sinbad mutters several minutes later, as he lays Ja’far gently into the massive king’s bed, “you won’t be anywhere _near_ waking by morning.”

 

And he’s not much better, curling up around Ja’far and letting the world fade from consciousness.

 

~~

 

When Ja'far wakes, it's actual _sunlight_ \--not some peek of it, just before daybreak--that pours over his face.

 

He blinks slowly and blearily, his vision a bit blurry around the edges as he pushes himself up. Sinbad's bed, he can tell that immediately, and while he doesn't exactly remember being brought here, he remembers the night before, and all the lingering, aching soreness that it entails.

 

… Oddly enough, not as sore as he _thought_ he'd be, but he'll take it. 

 

There's still an ache to everything, but more than that, he feels refreshed, minus the throbbing, hungover headache that he was sure he would have, too. Ja'far decides not to complain about that, either, no matter how strange it is, and sighs as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, cracking his neck with a careful twist and stretch. Finally, _sleep_ \--blissful, quiet sleep. Maybe Sinbad was right about needing certain things for stress relief (though the man should be applauded, for doing the job of three men). 

 

After washing his face and straightening his robes--clean, different from the ones he'd worn a day ago, albeit minus his keffiyeh--to a semblance of propriety, Ja'far makes his way down the halls, pausing in surprise at the sight of one of his archives' doors wide open, and upon poking his head inside, the sight of _Sinbad_ sorting out scrolls. His eyebrows raise, and Ja'far takes a cautious step inside. "… You realize you're _filing_ things, don't you?"

 

“Filing things?” Sinbad blinks up, face warming into a heartbreakingly sweet smile at the sight of Ja’far in the doorway. 

 

Then he stands, intending to escort Ja’far to a chair, pleased that Ja’far doesn’t seem to need it. “Not really, no. I’m finished with the filing, I’m just re-checking a few things before a break for brunch. You’re welcome to go over everything, just to make certain it’s up to your standards,” he adds, indicating a new shelf that’s been installed, sliding easily in front of the first one on a rolling track, already neatly piled floor to ceiling with tightly-bound scrolls.

 

Ja'far blinks back at him, his head tilting slowly to the side. "… How long have you been doing this?" he curiously asks, eyeballing the sizable amount of scrolls in question. "Did you even sleep last night at all?" 

 

“Last night? Mm, yes, for at least eight hours.” Sinbad stretches, enjoying the morning light. “This was mostly yesterday’s work. And the day before.”

 

Oh. Suddenly, everything makes a bit more sense. "I… see. How long was I asleep?"

 

“Three days.” Sinbad grins, substantially proud of himself for all the work he’s accomplished, trying not to squirm like a little child showing off an achievement to his parents. “You nearly woke up when I spooned broth into your mouth, but you went right back to sleep after.”

 

Ja'far stares at him a bit more, and slowly moves to take a seat before he just flops down onto the floor. "I was comatose." He blinks. "You fucked me until I was _comatose_." Well, surely there were other factors, but _still_. It's a little impressive, if he thinks about it, rather like the fact the kingdom doesn't seem to be collapsing, and that Sin is capable of doing work when he is otherwise incapacitated. Good to know.

 

Sinbad shrugs. “I prefer to think of it as giving you the medication you’d been withholding from yourself--something I trust you won’t do again, when you know how it affects you when you don’t get a fix,” he warns. His smile is warm, and he reaches out to grasp Ja’far’s hand. “You look alive.”

 

"It's not medication, it's just--" Ja'far exhales, frowning up at Sinbad for a moment before tightening his hold on the other man's hand and bodily hauling him down, kissing him firmly. "… Thank you," he murmurs, face coloring slightly as his eyes slide sideways. "I appreciate you taking care of everything while I… recovered." 

 

The kiss is a surprise, and leaves Sinbad blinking, a slow heat uncurling, pleased, in his chest. Damn everything, but it even makes him feel a little _shy_. “It’s….no problem,” he half-mutters, cheeks gone pink. Then he recovers, and adds, “I figured if one of us was being lazy, the other should be working hard in the archive room. Lucky you, you were promoted to King for a few days.”

 

It's such an accurate comparison that Ja'far has to laugh in spite of himself. "I think," he says, sagging back with a sigh, "that I much prefer it the other way around. Amazing, though, what you're capable of when you aren't insistent upon being idle."

 

“I’m not stupid,” Sinbad reminds him. Sometimes he has to remind himself, too. “I just don’t lust after papers and organization the way you do, as long as I can remember where something is, that’s filed enough for me. Not for you, of course, so I made certain to follow your system.”

 

"If you were stupid, I wouldn't still be here." Ja'far shakes his head, slowly pushing himself upright onto legs that still feel oddly… floaty. "Still, thank you. It should be easy to get back into the swing of things this way. Ah--how is Kouen doing? Resting well, I hope."

 

“Resting? Mmm, wouldn’t call it that. He spends a lot of time with Judal, and a lot of time with maps.” Sinbad ties his hair back, shaking it out of his face. Odd, how it bothers him so much more when he’s sitting down all day. Much longer, and he’d have cut it to match Ja’far’s. “I see what you like about him, mostly. Though someone _really_ needs to teach him how to dress.”

 

Ja'far's lips twitch in amusement, and he idly reaches up, catching a strand of Sinbad's hair to wind about one finger. "Where's your comb? I'll brush this properly for you, it looks like no one's bothered for the whole time I've been asleep." If there's one thing being a Magi's keeper has taught him, it's how to deal with _hair_. Sinbad lucked out in that regard, Ja'far supposes. "And Kouen's taste… well. Not all men are you, cut him a bit of slack."

 

Sinbad is pretty certain his eyes are shining with a thousand suns worth of love when he hands over his comb, gladly shaking out his hair. “Yes, _please_ , no one does it like you, you’ve got the best hands for it. I do cut him slack--I haven’t mentioned that silly little beard to his face, have I?”

 

"Sit," Ja'far directs, grabbing Sinbad's arm and pulling him to the chair. He hefts himself up onto the side of the desk behind it, all the better to pull the mass of Sinbad's hair into his lap and slowly work from the bottom up. "And you just mentioned his beard. Be nice about it, he's very proud of it for some reason." He pauses. "Please don't ever do the facial hair… thing. Morning stubble is one thing, but…"

 

Sinbad can’t bite back the impulsive _shudder_ at the idea. “I don’t even like morning stubble,” he says unnecessarily, given how many times Ja’far has seen him shaving fastidiously at daybreak--one of the only things that _can_ get him out of bed. “I never said I won’t mention the beard, just that I won’t mention it _to him_. I have some tact. Ah, you’re so good at that.”

 

"Your hair is easy, compared to Judal's," Ja'far murmurs, neatly untangling a small knot with his fingers. "And good, definitely refrain. He gets very defensive. Wouldn't you think a prince would have better taste in most things? Kouen is… odd."

 

Sinbad starts to answer, then pauses, frowning. “Hmm….would you say his retainers have been the type to give him honest opinions about his personal choices in appearance? Or would they smile and nod and tell him he looks like the dew on a spring morning, no matter what sewer he’d crawled out of?”

 

"Well, I've certainly never bitten my tongue." To… interesting results, that. Ja'far snorts, dragging the comb slowly through another section of Sinbad's hair. "But in general, he's always been humored so long as he's marginally presentable. Don't tell me you're going to start giving him tips, that might turn out hilariously." 

 

“I just hate to see a fellow royal suffering from such lack of fashion sense,” Sinbad says sadly. “There’s nothing wrong with his face, and that hair is fantastic. Why he chooses to look like a cheap villain from one of my novels is beyond me.”

 

"He thinks it makes him imposing," Ja'far says with all seriousness. "Because being taller and broader than _you_ isn't good enough, apparently." 

 

Sinbad blinks. “Is he really? Taller and….” He looks at his arms, narrows his eyes, then shrugs, unconcerned. “I suppose I just carry it better, ha!”

 

"It's in the shoulders," Ja'far mildly notes. "And he's only taller by a small bit. I seriously doubt anyone other than me would notice. But yes, you do carry yourself quite well. Also, you have longer legs." Another section of Sinbad's hair down, and Ja'far lets the finished parts pool into his lap, glistening like silk after his thorough combing. "Let Judal play dress-up with him, he's always very diplomatic about it and good at correcting him, in his… odd little way."

 

Sinbad lets his eyes lid, thoroughly enjoying his own personal grooming. Ja’far’s hands are accurate and gentle in his hair, and he relishes the way he combs through every last strand. “He’s been wearing a different outfit every day,” he notes mildly. “Seems much improved medically, as well. Yesterday Judal made him change hats five times before deciding against hats.”

 

"See? Let Judal handle him." Personally, Ja'far is just glad the two can still get along, regardless of Judal's choosing. "At this rate, maybe Kouen will be a bit more… collected, in dealing with the Kou Empire. The last thing he needs to do is charge in like an idiot."

 

“Mmm. I think Judal agrees. He can be oddly astute about people, sometimes,” Sinbad remarks thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s the Magi thing.”

 

"More like an idiot savant thing… or perhaps that's all one and the same," Ja'far deadpans. He scoots forward a bit, bringing the comb up to Sinbad's scalp, and idly plucks at his cowlick with a pair of fingers. "This never goes away."

 

Sinbad swats at Ja’far’s hand. “I’ve had it since I was a child, I’ve made my peace. Believe me, I’ve tried everything, it’s earned the right to live on my head.” He catches Ja’far’s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the backs of his fingers. “Thank you. There’s nothing better than your touch.”

 

"You're just glad I'm awake so you don't have to slave over paperwork any longer," Ja'far sighs, though his fingers curl beneath the pleasant brush of Sinbad's fingers. "Mmn… I wonder if Judal will stay distracted enough with Kouen that I can chop my hair off and have him ignore it for once."

 

“No.” Sinbad shrugs ruefully, then tugs Ja’far into his lap. “I cut it for you while you were sleeping. Judal came in as if I’d blown a whistle only he could hear.”

 

Ja'far exhales a very long-suffering sigh. "Hellbeast," he mutters, twisting within Sinbad's hold to properly straddle him, sitting back onto the man's thighs. "Long hair doesn't even suit me."

 

“I think everything suits you.” Sinbad grins, tugging a long strand of hair. “But I’m biased. Or my eyes are broken from staring at ink on paper for three days straight, or from not having a drop of wine.”

 

"Forgoing alcohol as well? I'm impressed." Ja'far's head cocks. "I suppose with that in mind, my king is entitled to a break from his duties."

 

A smile creases Sinbad’s lips. “So irresponsible. I suppose I have no choice but to be led astray.”

 

 

~~

 

 

Sindria is a fine place.

 

It’s just not his place.

 

The thought turns over and over in Kouen’s mind that as long as he’s in Sindria, as long as the last remaining branch of sanity on his family tree is out of Kou, there’s nothing to be done. Sure, Sinbad wants to help, but what can he really do? Even that sentimental conviction that Ja’far could help, Ja’far could do anything, Ja’far was the person to see had been thoroughly crushed. Ja’far is a broken shell now, either ragged or comatose, and hasn’t even been conscious for the last few days. Judal could be some help--should be some help, but he can’t, not when he has another King.  And Sinbad will hardly spend an army he doesn’t have against Al-Sarmen’s legions of magicians, that’s for certain.

 

The longer he stays, the more convinced he is that he’ll have to simply do it himself.

 

Ah, well. At least he’s been sheltered long enough to heal, and to plan. All there is left is to slip out in the middle of the night.

 

He’s not sure quite when Judal had entered the room, but as soon as he’d tried to leave the bed, his chest suddenly has a Magi on top of it, blinking down at him in the moonlight.

 

"You're not allowed to leave," is Judal's matter-of-fact 'greeting', his knees neatly tucked up underneath himself as he perches atop Kouen's chest with all of his weight (not much). His head tilts, and the heavy fall of his braid thumps down next to Kouen's head. "At least, not in the middle of the night like this. Bad idea."

 

“If I don’t go like this, someone will try to stop me,” Kouen says matter-of-factly, ignoring the fact that someone _is_ trying to stop him, quite effectively, too. “I’m going to do what’s right for my country.”

 

Judal blinks slowly at him. "But going off in the middle of the night and getting yourself killed isn't good for your country at all." 

 

In Judal’s mouth, that sounds less concerned and more….ominously prophetic. Kouen relaxes with bad grace, back onto the bed. “I’ll give Sinbad a few more days,” he finally agrees. “But then I’m going to to by myself, if nothing is done.”

 

"No, I'm going with you," Judal huffily retorts, and he unfolds himself in sort order, sprawling himself long and lean atop Kouen. "I told you that already," he murmurs, eyeing Kouen's beard rather like a cat that is about to pounce. "I'm going to help." 

 

As a pre-emptive measure, Kouen puts a hand over Judal’s mouth, just in case. “No biting,” he warns. “Your king won’t let you come with me, it’s far too dangerous for his prize Magi.”

 

"My king can get over it," is the initial, muffled retort before Judal's eyes narrow and he slowly _licks_ Kouen's palm.

 

Kouen swallows slowly, and rumbles low in his chest, “You’re playing a dangerous game there, kitten.”

 

Oh. That's a nice name to be called--really nice, judging by the flush of heat that sweeps over him from head to toe in short order. Judal huffs out a hot breath against Kouen's hand and twists his head away a bit to nibble on the man's thumb rather than lick him. "Games are good, dangerous is better," he settles for, looking up at Kouen through his lashes. "And you look like you need a distraction, anyway." 

 

“I have a feeling you have something in mind.” Just now, blood starting to pump faster, Kouen remembers what it was like to be just barely in his twenties, with Judal climbing into his lap the first time and announcing in his ear that he was ready for _grown-up fun_. “Down,” he murmurs, letting his hand come to rest on Judal’s head, urging him slowly down. “And if you bite there, you’ll be punished.”

 

Judal snorts at that, tilting his head up to manage a last, lazy snap at Kouen's hand before he slowly wriggles his way down, nuzzling along the inside of one, muscular thigh. "Not gonna bite down here, don't be dumb," he murmurs, sighing through his nose as he mouths an absent kiss over the hardening line of Kouen's cock through fabric. "I like this too much."

 

“You always have,” Kouen murmurs fondly, hand gripping hard in Judal’s hair, just the way he’s always known Judal likes it. “I want you to touch yourself while you suck on me. Can you do that, kitten?”

 

The rumbling moan that pulls from Judal's lips is assent enough, especially when his teeth are put to good use in tugging down fabric, careful not to nip at any skin. Kouen's cock is already hard and heavy between his legs, and Judal's eyes lid when his tongue drags a first, messy swipe over the tip, the taste going straight to his own cock. That _nickname_ \--ahh, that shouldn't make him as hard as it does, but it's cute and affectionate and he _likes it_. Judal twists around, straining against the hold on his hair because that feels surprisingly good, too, especially when he has his mouth on Kouen's cock, wrapping his lips around the head, and snakes a hand down between his own legs, rutting down into the simple touch of his palm already. 

 

“There’s a good boy,” Kouen rumbles affectionately, stroking Judal’s hair, looking down to see every swipe of that wet pink tongue, every movement of those glistening lips already starting to swell around his cock. This--this is almost as good as the numb emptiness of pain for taking away the feelings, a cleansing fire. After all, he _is_ the Flame Emperor by destiny, is he not?

 

_At least, I will be._

 

“Be noisy. Let me hear you enjoying it.”

 

Judal hardly needs to be _told_. He groans, the next, messy suck of his lips and tongue making him briefly release Kouen's cock with a slick pop, all before his mouth slides down again eagerly, a hand lifting to push his own hair back and out of the way as he lets Kouen's cock slide deeper over his tongue. Kouen is so _thick_ that it makes his jaw hurt, makes him strain to take so much of him, and even before he's more than half-way down, he feels himself have to swallow hard to keep from gagging, whining out a breathy, needy sound through his nose as he does. 

 

His cock _twitches_ as he works, his fingers squeezing tight around the base of it, and Judal huffs, his mouth's next, sloppy drag downward bringing him to swallow nearly _all_ of Kouen, his face flushed and achingly relieved and _proud_ , no matter how his throat spasms and tears bead at the corners of his eyes. 

 

“Good boy,” Kouen murmurs, hips twitching up into that smooth wet clenching heat, feeling his eyes roll back into his head as he _groans_. “Very--ah, you’re going to make me finish too fast, you look so nice.”

 

It’s sort of _cute_ , how proud Judal obviously is of his skills, and he pets gently through Judal’s hair, reaching down to swipe a thumb under one eye, wiping off a stray tear before bringing it to his mouth and licking it off. He nods, eyes lidding as a slow shudder goes through him at the salty taste on his tongue, and grunts out, “Go on, you know what I like.”

 

He _does_ , and that's a relief in and of itself, that he can actually do something to make Kouen feel good in spite of everything else. Judal eagerly works Kouen with his mouth, tongue dragging from root to tip until the man nearly slips from his mouth again, only for him to swallow him whole again, choking every inch of him down much easier this time. His own body feels on fire, a shivery, burning heat that makes him abandon touching his cock in favor of just grinding it down into the bed as his hands slide up, one smoothing up over Kouen's stomach, the other cupping, kneading his balls as he _sucks_ , letting Kouen hear the muffled, mindless little gagging noises when Judal takes him in just a bit too fast. 

 

Ah, he shouldn’t have been so free with that instruction. Judal does know what he likes, far too much, and every touch, every suck, every lick and whimper and _gag_ drives him _fast_ toward that precipice, until all he’s doing is rutting up into Judal’s mouth, hands tight in his hair. “Perfect,” he mutters, and “ _Gods_ \--”

 

He’s a bit too slow pulling out, and the first shot goes down Judal’s throat. The next two land in his mouth and on his lips, painting him a sultry, defiled shade of white that Kouen can’t help but stare at, breathing hard as he squeezes the last drop out of his cock, wiping it off with a thumb, then sliding that thumb into Judal’s mouth. “Perfect.”

 

Judal moans, his eyes fluttering and cheeks hollowing as he sucks on Kouen's thumb, panting out a ragged breath through his nose as his hips wriggle down into the sheets. It doesn't take much, not with Kouen's taste heavy on his tongue, his lips swollen and bruised as they wrap around his thumb, and he comes with an aching, twitching shudder, not even needing another touch of his own hand to his cock when he spills onto the bed with a gasp. 

 

"Good?" he rasps out, releasing Kouen's thumb with an audible _pop_ , though his fingers still clutch at the man's wrist, shaky and needy. 

 

Kouen nods, fumbling to grab Judal, hauling him up close, though he’ll avoid a real kiss until Judal’s washed his mouth out. “Better,” he murmurs, cuddling Judal up to his chest, petting his hair. “You’ve gotten even better at that, and you were already so good.”

 

Judal exhales a long, rumbling sigh, more a purr than anything else, and he butts his head up underneath Kouen's chin, curling himself into a ball atop his chest. "Like it when you call me things," he contently mumbles. "Can't be your Magi, but I can be your kitten, if you want."

 

That touches Kouen, in a way he never would have expected, and a sudden surge of affection makes him tangle a hand in Judal’s hair, wrapping his other arm tight around the Magi’s waist. “Really?” It’s been hard not to think of Judal as simply _gone_ from him, the way Ja’far obviously is, no matter how close they’d been.

 

"Mmhm," Judal sighs, eyes lidded as he wriggles close, trying very hard not to simply doze off when he's this warm and sated. "Just because I had to leave didn't mean I never wanted to be around you again."

 

“To be fair,” Kouen concedes, “I could have had you. I was the one who put you in a bag and handed you off to Sinbad.”

 

"… It was kind of fun being a worm like that," the Magi absently recalls.

 

“Mmm, you’re always wriggly. And bitey,” Kouen adds, stroking his beard. “I don’t think worms bite. That’s why I called you kitten.”

 

"Ja'far says I'm like a cat," Judal affirms, watching Kouen's hand and barely resisting the urge to bite at his beard again. "So I can be a kitten. I like it when you call me that, anyway."

 

Kouen rests his hand back on Judal’s head, seeing the warning signs again. “What if I asked you not to let anyone else call you that?”

 

"No one else ever has, so that shouldn't be too hard." Judal grins up at him, taking a snap at Kouen's hand instead. "It would sound weird coming from anyone else, besides." 

 

Kouen scowls, and flips them over, pinning Judal firmly down to the bed. “Kittens need to learn to put their claws away,” he growls, tightening a grip on Judal’s wrists.

 

A squeak escapes before Judal can bite it back, and he sucks in a quick, ragged little breath, staring up at Kouen through his lashes. "Not good at that," he breathes, squirming for good measure. "Never have been." 

 

Kouen’s lips crease in a brief, dark smile. “No, you haven’t. And you remember being punished for it, don’t you?”

 

"But you _like_ it," Judal protests on a groan, wriggling to better press his thighs to Kouen's hips. "You just pretend you don't sometimes."

 

“And _you_ ,” Kouen reminds Judal, grinding down against him, “pretend you don’t like being punished, and sometimes you _did_.”

 

He sets his teeth to an ear, tugging. “Does Sinbad punish you, kitten?”

 

 _Why_ does that go straight to his cock every time? Judal groans, shivering, flexing his arms against the hold on his wrists, and he manages a quick shake of his head. "N… not really," he laughs. "He knows I like it too much…"

 

“Then he’s much gentler with you than I am,” Kouen says, pulling up to grin down at Judal. “You didn’t _always_ like it with me. Some of that whining was real, I could tell.”

 

"Because you're too _rough_ sometimes," Judal growls at him, lurching up to snap his teeth against the arc of Kouen's neck, sucking on the bob of his Adam's Apple. "I'm not Ja'far, I don't wanna practically be _dead_ afterwards."

 

“Shame. He always seems to enjoy himself.” Kouen looks down at Judal, feeling the scrape of his teeth, and brings his hand up to tweak a nipple. “What today? Do you want to be tied up or spanked?”

 

"But I didn't even bite _hard_ ," the Magi huffs with a pointed squirm, his lower lip jutting in a pout. "Shouldn't you take good care of your pets?"

 

Kouen’s hand tenses, then relaxes, coming up to stroke the side of Judal’s face before he leans down, almost a kiss, the barest brush of lips before pulling away. “You’re right. Kittens don’t know how to retract their claws, do they?”

 

"No, but they can try," Judal murmurs, lurching up to kiss Kouen _properly_ , his teeth gently catching the other man's lower lip as he pulls away. "Just want you to feel good again."

 

Kouen allows the kiss, though he makes a face when Judal pulls away, tasting his seed on Judal’s tongue. “You’re very good at making me feel better. I….I _will_ feel better with you at my side.”

 

"Ah, sorry--forgot you don't like that," Judal sheepishly apologizes, butting his head lightly against Kouen's shoulder. "And I'm not leaving your side, so be happy for five seconds, okay? I'll help you and everything, too. It's not like Sinbad can stop me even if he wanted to."

 

“Really?” That’s news to Kouen, and if he’d found out while he’d still intended on being Judal’s king, it would doubtless have been _bad_ news. “Don’t you have to obey his every wish and grant him ultimate power?”

 

Judal blinks up at him, eyebrows raising. "… No? I mean, I think I'm _supposed_ to listen to him. I usually do, like the time I was really tired and kept helping to build this palace up anyway."

 

“What a selfless little worker you are.” Ei had been that way, always putting the needs of the country ahead of…

 

Kouen swallows hard, and buries his face in Judal’s shoulder. “Just stay by me tonight.”

 

Another blink, and Judal slowly nods, letting his arms wind their way around Kouen's back to drag him down against him. "Wasn't going to leave, anyway," he murmurs. "Sinbad says I'm good at cuddling, so we'll do that." 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 _If I'm not allowed to kill you, then I will protect you_.

 

Never mind that he had felt out of his mind when those words originally were spoken to Sinbad. Ja'far cares little for that. They ring true now more than ever, and it's for that very reason that the next night, he slinks his way into Kouen's room, lingering by the door silently until making his presence known with a (slightly) less silent step forward 

 

"You aren't taking Judal back with you." 

 

Kouen’s hand freezes, in the process of recording his thoughts in a loosely bound book of blank pages Sinbad had given him, eyebrows raising. Through everything, it _is_ good to see Ja’far, even like this. “Can you think of a way to stop him? He ignores me when I try to tell him to stay behind for his own safety.”

 

"Leave without telling him," Ja'far simply answers. "Which will also be a lot easier if he's drugged and unconscious for the night." 

 

Kouen looks down at his body--so lately ravaged, now healed up by that same Magi’s hand. “He’ll be beyond furious. What about Sinbad?”

 

"… He doesn't need to go either." Ja'far slowly moves to sink down onto the edge of the bed. "It's hardly wise for him to move against Al-Sarmen. No matter how powerful he is, I think you have proven my point that brute strength does little against them." 

 

Kouen’s expression sours, and he caps his ink bottle, tucking it and his book away in his robes. “I hardly enjoy being referred to as a brute. Aren’t you worried about his reaction? To being left behind?”

 

"I wasn't saying you were a brute." Ja'far sighs, his head tilting in vague irritation. "His reaction to being left behind is _nothing_ compared to the fact that he might be killed. This country needs him; he can't simply throw himself away."

 

One ruddy eyebrow raises as Kouen looks up. “From what I’ve heard, this country needs you, too. Still, I’ll hardly object, as long as you want to come with me. Should we drug them both, do you think?”

 

"… I might have already slipped something into his favorite wine," Ja'far admits on a sigh, looking back at Kouen tiredly. "I figured you would see similarly to me. And yes, of course I plan on coming with you. There's no way you can deal with Al-Sarmen without me."

 

Kouen reaches out a hand, squeezing Ja’far’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you by my side,” he says quietly, and stands, drawing himself up to his full height. “You’re the real reason I dragged myself here.”

 

Ja'far blinks at that, his brow furrowing as he looks up at Kouen. "I was? Kouen… you know there's a good chance that all I can do is serve as a distraction for them. They've been hunting me for awhile now, and if I can't convince them that I'm loyal again…"

 

Kouen shakes his head, dismissive of that. “You’re always an asset. Sinbad conquered a little slice of the world with your help, didn’t he? That’s all I ask.”

 

"I'll… do what I can, of course. It's the least I can do," Ja'far adds, "after you helped Judal escape from Kou."

 

“As long as we’re keeping him safe.” Kouen grabs a small bag, everything he’s collected in his short weeks of rest, and gives Ja’far a little smile. “Lead the way. I’ll follow you.”

 

"… We're stealing a ship," Ja'far wryly tells him, rising to his own feet as well. "I hope you aren't too tired of the ocean."

 

“Fucking ocean,” Kouen mutters, shouldering his way out the door. Why does it always have to be the goddamn ocean?

 

~~

 

Probably, stealing the _Masrur_ of all ships was ill-advised.

 

Ja'far can remember, very vividly, the night they stole it from the Kou Empire's harbors. That _would_ be why he chose it, though; it looks like every other ship that sails into Kou's waters, and that bit of cover is extremely useful in a situation like this.

 

It certainly isn't because of any superstitious sense of thinking it might be good luck in some way.

 

The bare bones crew he's assembled suspects little and runs the ship well enough, lending him to tiredly lean over the ship's railing and try not to think about how _angry_ Sinbad must be right about now. Undoubtedly, he'll try and come after them. _Hopefully_ , they've gotten enough of a headstart that they can at least have some sort of plan well under way by the time Sinbad tries to arrive, and he won't have to do anything--or at least, nothing life-threatening. 

 

A particularly strong gust of wind rips the keffiyeh right from his head, and Ja'far scowls after it, annoyed when his hair promptly gets sent flying into his face afterwards. Well. Judal isn't here. Maybe he can cut it for once and be done with it. 

 

“You dropped this.”

 

Kouen’s feet hit the deck as he drops down to the rigging, an eyebrow raised, keffiyeh held in his outstretched hand. “Thought you might need it to hide your face while you’re throwing up.”

 

He’s made no pretense of the same thing himself. If anyone wants to go blabbing back home about how the eldest Prince had been gagging over the railing, well, there’s no one back home whose good opinion he’ll be sorry to lose.

 

"How kind of you," Ja'far drawls, reaching out to take the thing from Kouen's hand. "Though I've long accepted my fate of vomiting up my guts on ships, at least for the first day. How are you faring? If it keeps bothering you, you should go below deck, it doesn't sway as much."

 

“I know how to handle seasickness.” That is, if _handle means resign himself to never eating again_. Kouen turns to face the wind, letting it ripple through his hair, the sea spray over his face. “It can’t really bother me anymore. Nothing seems to.”

 

"That's something of a lie," is the assassin's sigh as he sags against the railing, eyes lidded. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here at all. Or are you going to just blame that on a baby Magi's bed being boring?" Ignoring the fact that Judal is hardly a baby by most standards, of course. 

 

“Baby?” Kouen echoes, a slight frown on his face. “He was no baby the first time I bedded him, and that was years ago. I’m not _bored_ , Ja’far. Revenge isn’t _boring_. It’s just necessary.”

 

"It was a joke." A bad one, apparently. Ja'far is coming to understand most of his jokes are, apparently, bad. "I think, though," he slowly says, lifting his head, "that you need to think of this as less revenge and more a reconquering." 

 

Kouen grips the rail on the side of the ship, inhaling deeply. “I wish I could. On my way to Sindria….I realized….god. I don’t care if Kou sinks into the sea, as long as they all die.”

 

"… You're going to kill yourself, thinking like that," Ja'far quietly points out. "Years ago, when Mas… ah, when Sinbad came after me--he had the same train of thought, and I'm fairly certain he would have died, if he ran into the wrong people."

 

“No doubt.” Sometimes, it’s hard even to focus on Ja’far. It’s hard to focus on anything besides Ei’s face gone slack, her bloody, shaking hand reaching for him. His hands squeeze the railing, so hard he hears something crack, whether it’s his own hands or the wood. “You wouldn’t understand, I’m sorry. You’ve never truly loved someone.”

 

Something in his chest twists. _That's wrong. You're wrong_ , Ja'far wants to say, but if that were true, he wouldn't be here right now, would he? Sin is probably going to be angry enough to try and lop his head off again, no matter how Ja'far tries to reason this is all to _protect him_. _It's just me being selfish and trying to survive. Minus a master, and I can't do anything_.

 

"… Still. It would make them all angrier to know you survived." Ja'far's eyes slide sideways. "If nothing else, there's a satisfaction to that sort of petty revenge, isn't there?"

 

“If there is anyone left to feel angry,” Kouen says quietly, almost unheard over the sea spray, “then I won’t be finished.” His back hunches, and the sea spray burns his eyes. “Have you ever...felt empty inside?”

 

"I think that's supposed to be my modus operandi," Ja'far can't help but drawl, a sigh following as he drops his head into one hand. "I hate to tell you, but you'll never rid the world entirely of Al-Sarmen. People will continue to go against their fate, and more of them will be born. Neither you or Sinbad seem to understand that."

 

“I don’t care about allegiance,” Kouen mutters. “I just want everyone that killed my family to die too. I…” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “I used to want so many things.”

 

Ja'far turns toward him, and promptly stretches up to plop his keffiyeh atop Kouen's head. "I'm fairly certain I'm the only one allowed to be this mopey. If you're going to be focused on revenge, at least be sort of riled up about it. Less regret, more anger."

 

“Why?” Kouen can’t stop the half-smile on his face, guessing how ridiculous he must look. “Why should I feel more one way or the other? You can’t tell me you’ve never felt regret.”

 

"I regret almost everything in my life," Ja'far honesty answers, sinking back down onto his heels. "But it doesn't suit you, when you have something far more solid to strive for, and can easily be your country's savior."

 

 _But I won’t have her._ “And take some foreign princess to wife, and sire an heir, and live until one of those heirs lops off my head for my crown.”

 

"If you're a good emperor and father, they won't lop your head off." Ja'far's head tilts. "Though you've rather poor circulation, good luck with the kid thing."

 

“I thought you weren’t going to tell anyone about that,” Kouen mutters. Some things said in confidence should remain that way. “Being a good emperor and father didn’t help my uncle any.”

 

"I didn't tell anyone, I'm just talking to you. And of course, but it wasn't his children lopping his head off," Ja'far mildly points out. "I'd be more concerned about Si--" _Sinbad thinking you've stolen me_ \--ah, nope, not going there. "Rival nations, or particularly jealous ones in general that are amazed at how you've risen from the ashes."

 

“But it was nothing like that that brought my uncle down.” Kouen swallows, rubbing the sea spray off his face with broad, calloused hands. “It’s too bad you won’t stay with me,” he says quietly. “I’d be more confident about my chances.”

 

Ja'far shakes his head at that. "You don't want me," he simply replies. "I do little but paperwork until I keel over nowadays." 

 

“You’re wasted there in bloody _Sindria_ ,” Kouen mutters. “I’d never use you for such pathetic things.”

 

"Someone has to run parliament," Ja'far argues with a faint twitch of a smile. "Besides, it's sort of a balm to the nerves. What would you have me do instead, slay all of your enemies?" 

 

“I wouldn’t _mind_.” Kouen makes a face, scrubbing at his chin. “My beard feels awful. Fucking salt spray, how did you spend so much time on one of these things?”

 

"Hiding below deck." He's not joking in the slightest. "You have two options with that thing: let me shave it off for you, or use water stores to scrub it clean daily. The latter won't win you many favors." 

 

Kouen stares at him, aghast. “Shave? You have to be joking. We’ll stop for water as many times as we have to.”

 

"… What if I shaved it off in your sleep."

 

Kouen’s hand comes up to his chin reflexively, and he shudders. “You look entirely too serious about something as horrifying as that. Stop it, you’ll give me some kind of panic ulcer.”

 

Ja'far blinks up at him slowly. "Even if I told you that you might look good without it?" 

 

“Everyone tells me that. Jealous, all of you.”

 

"… But I've never wanted facial hair a day in my life." Ja'far sighs, pushing away from the railing with a shrug. "Well, suit yourself. Most men like when I offer to shave them, you know." 

 

Kouen raises an eyebrow. “Is that offer open for anywhere, or just my face? There’s something erotic about you with a razor.”

 

"Ah, now you realize it." Ja'far reaches over, idly tugging his keffiyeh so it sits a bit straighter on Kouen's head. "Anywhere is fine. A man's face just seems to be the most common thing."

 

A slight hint of color comes into Kouen’s cheeks. “A servant girl I bedded once wanted me….smooth. I found the idea intriguing, though of course I didn’t do it for her. Have you any experience with that kind of thing?”

 

"Enough," Ja'far allows, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. "I've had my share of missions _posing_ as that servant girl. Don't tell me you'd like that, too." _Probably as much as Sinbad wanted to hear about the time I infiltrated as a belly dancer._

 

“I always like it when you dress up. Remember when we snuck into the city to find Mei, and you wouldn’t let us go in our real clothes?”

 

"Because where we were going was asking for trouble," Ja'far drawls, his eyes lidding. "I apologize, but I didn't exactly bring any women's clothing with me."

 

“Fine. I’ll settle with you wearing nothing at all.” Kouen looks around the deck, then moves, tugging Ja’far into the vacant Captain’s Cabin. “Hell, I don’t care what you wear.”

 

" _You've_ gotten forward," Ja'far notes, far more entertained than annoyed by it. It's a _distraction_ , and seeing Kouen perk up even in the slightest way makes something tense uncoil within him. He reaches back, pulling the door shut behind him. "You're certain I can't change your mind about your beard? Waking up to your stubble in the morning is appealing in a way."

 

“I still have stubble,” Kouen says, somewhat annoyed by it. “It takes an hour of grooming every morning to make this happen.” He sits on the bed, legs apart, an eyebrow raised up at Ja’far. “Get your razor. And pick a place to start.”

 

Ja'far pauses, _looking_ at him. "An hour? _Really?_ " It's impossible not to be amused by that, too, and he hikes up one side of his robes to select a blade strapped to this thigh. A fortunate thing, that the captain's cabin is always well-stocked, and a small basin of water and lathering soap is also easy enough to procure. "It should only take that long if you're _deliberately_ trying to take your time," he murmurs, dropping himself neatly into Kouen's lap. "I think you just like admiring yourself."

 

“Well,” Kouen protests, “I’m not unhandsome to look at but...there’s my cheeks, and my neck, and I have to be careful in trimming the edges, and I have special creams to apply before and after, and then there’s….ah, forget it.” He wraps an arm around Ja’far’s waist, hand pressed against the small of the man’s back. “You still feel good, even after these years.”

 

"… If your skin is so sensitive, are you certain you want me near it?" Ja'far wryly teases, idly sliding the flat of his blade down Kouen's throat as he deliberately splays his legs wider, sliding deeper into Kouen's lap. "And I should hope so, even though Sinbad has been trying to fatten me up. For what reason, I can't fathom." 

 

“Sinbad has odd tastes.” Though he’d liked the way Ei had felt when she was plump, all sweet curves and warm flesh. “You’re probably the only person I would let do this. I took over for my valet when I was fourteen, you know.”

 

"Were they no good?" Ja'far thumbs the shoulder of Kouen's robes. "I suppose either way, though, I'm honored, Your Majesty."

 

Kouen shrugs his robes off his shoulders, letting them pool on the bed, around his waist. “No one has the finesse I want. You’ve always been quite good at finesse.”

 

"I would be a piss-poor assassin if I wasn't," Ja'far agrees, eyes lidding as he coaxes Kouen's arm up. He hardly minds humoring the man like this--if anything, it's sort of soothing in a way, to have a task no matter how most would consider it truly servant's work. A swipe of soapy lather follows beneath Kouen's arm, and Ja'far's blade is smooth and painless as it drags over sensitive skin, leaving it clean in one slide. "Lift your other arm," he murmurs, "then I'll get out of your lap and do the rest, if you want."

 

“I’ve more than that.” Kouen says, holding out his arm. “On them, under them, my legs….as long as you’ve got the blade and the soap and the time, why rush? I like your hands on me.” Oddly erotic, the scrape of that sharp silver across his skin.

 

"Mmn. My apologies for assuming." Jafar takes the offered arm instead, flicking a bit of excess soap off of the razor before smoothing it over the length of Kouen's arm from the elbow down first. "Men are a little strange about where they prefer to be shaven, sometimes," he explains, eyes lidded as he works, sitting back a bit onto Kouen's thighs. "Though you'll feel particularly nice, I think, if you're smooth like this everywhere." 

 

“It’s….intriguing.” And oddly comforting, oddly soothing, oddly….

 

It’s the first time something has felt really good, really _new_ since everything had happened. 

 

Maybe there are new things to be learned in the world after all.

 

Kouen runs a hand down the shaved length of his arm, eyebrows raised. “That feels….strange. Good. I sort of want to rub it on something.” _Someone_.

 

"You're as bad as a cat," Ja'far mildly retorts, washing the blade off and returning to his task shortly with Kouen's chest. "Rub it on me if you want, I don't mind. I suppose I'm lucky, I barely have any hair or it's just very fine."

 

The back of Kouen’s arm comes up, rubbing gently over Ja’far’s shoulder, his face, ending with a light brush if his fingers before letting his arm fall down by his side. “Very fine indeed,” he says softly. The blade on his chest is an all new experience, something that makes his heart race, thinking how close it could be to ending his life, and that makes it so much nicer to feel it gently scraping off the coarse hairs, leaving him smooth.

 

There's a rumble low in his throat that he can't quite suppress, and Ja'far wills his hand to steady before drawing it back to dunk and wash the blade clean once more. "Thinly veiling compliments, Your Majesty?" he lightly quips, briefly letting his head tip forward to nudge against Kouen's cheek. He slides the fingers of one hand down Kouen's chest, the guise of making sure he missed nothing a good enough excuse to touch as well. 

 

A slight hiss of breath comes out from between Kouen’s teeth, and he lets his head tip back, enjoying more than he thought he would the feel of delicate fingertips across smooth skin. It’s better on his chest, more sensitive, more intimate. “Why should I bother to veil them? If you want a compliment, you’ve done a very nice job keeping that blade sharp as a razor.”

 

"Isn't that the point?" Ja'far murmurs, letting his fingertips linger just a bit longer before he swipes the lather down Kouen's other arm, the slide of his blade slow and methodical. "One never knows when my abilities as an assassin might be needed… or as a personal attendant, as it may be." 

 

“So you make yourself available in infinite ways,” Kouen muses. “Wise, I suppose. Though you may be biting off more than you can chew, one of these days.” He looks up, watching the way Ja’far’s eyes roam over his body, up and down, careful and methodical. “I have _great_ need of your services.”

 

Ja'far's eyes flicker briefly in amusement. "I'm surprise you haven't tried to buy me before now, like some slave girl," he returns with raised eyebrows, coaxing Kouen's arm up to get underneath as well. 

 

“Only because I know you can’t be bought.” Kouen’s voice turns softer, more bitter. “The best people never can.”

 

"I think," Ja'far quietly says, "you are giving me far too much credit." 

 

Carefully, he slides from Kouen's lap, dropping neatly to his knees on the floor in front of him. "You wanted me to shave everywhere, didn't you?" he mildly inquires, glancing up through his lashes.

 

Kouen stands briefly, then shrugs off his robes, sitting back down with his legs parted. “Everywhere,” he confirms. “You said it wasn’t your first time with such a thing, didn’t you?”

 

"Hardly." Ja'far wipes the blade off, and starts from the knee down on one leg, drawing Kouen's leg forward into his grasp. "Would it make you angry," he mildly inquires, "to know I've done this for Sinbad?" 

 

“I’m not _that_ jealous,” Kouen mutters. His head tilts, and he imagines the scene vaguely, mouth twitching at the corners. “I confess myself a bit intrigued. For someone whose image consists of being such a wastrel, I’ve always been surprised that he wants to come across as a smooth-faced boy.”

 

Ja'far decides not to comment on anything regarding _jealousy_. "It's just a matter of preference… and vanity," he adds, dragging his blade up in long, sure strokes, washing away the hair and leaving Kouen's skin perfectly smooth. "A beard wouldn't suit him, anyway."

 

 _Not like it does me._ Kouen doesn’t need to say it aloud. He knows the truth. “You’re quite good at it, no matter how much practice you’ve had. What about yourself? In a man you’re bedding, which do you prefer? Hair, or skin?”

 

"… I've never had that much preference," Ja'far wryly admits, and sets that leg down to move onto the other. "I know you don't believe me, but I haven't had so many _men_ as you think."

 

“I’d say one of each is enough to form a preference,” Kouen argues. “One man and one woman is enough to tell me which I prefer of _those_. Besides present company, of course. You’re the only man who’s as good as a woman in bed.”

 

Ja'far blinks up at him, eyebrows raising. "That's a compliment, is it? I've never been told I fuck like a woman before. A whore, yes. Is that the same thing now?"

 

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t know.” Kouen gives Ja’far a small, confident smile. “I’ve never had to pay for it.”

 

"A soon-to-be-Emperor wouldn't." Ja'far scoots up further between his legs, his blade scraping slowly over the long, taut muscles of Kouen's thighs. "You know, one part of this is _easier_ if you aren't hard," he can't help but tease. "Do you like it so much?" 

 

Kouen reaches down between his legs, wrapping a hand around his balls and giving a firm downward squeeze. A few deep breaths, and his cock shrinks again, laying docile as he lets go. “I like your hands on me.”

 

"Once I'm finished, I'll touch you wherever else you like." Ja'far _is_ a bit more careful here, though his hand is as steady as ever, dragging his blade through coarse hairs swipe by swipe. It slides upward as well, dragging against the grain to Kouen's navel to divest of that trail of hair as well. "There. Smooth as silk. Now you can be as lewd as you want." 

 

“It’s difficult not to when you’re on your knees down there,” Kouen murmurs. “Mm. Very nice work, clean as anything I’ve ever seen.” He drags a thumb over himself, marveling at the lack of any stubble. “How long will it last down here?”

 

"It grows back fairly quickly," Ja'far says, setting his blade aside as he slinks his way up again, neatly straddling one thigh. "That's not to say I won't help maintain it, if you wish." 

 

“We’ll see.” Kouen’s lips twitch, and he tugs Ja’far closer, running his hands down arms so smooth they might as well be hairless. “I have to make a test of this new body of mine first, don’t you think? I’ll want your feedback as well.”

 

"If I didn't like it, do you think I would have spent all that time on you?" This is a pleasant distraction, a pleasant _indulgence_ , and Kouen's hands _do_ feel good sliding against him. He exhales a sigh through his nose as he wriggles closer, settling more solidly over Kouen's lap, his face butting into the crook of the man's shoulder. "But if you still feel like being a big cat and rubbing all over me, I suppose that's a fine way to test it…"

 

Pleasures of the flesh...yes, this is good, it’s what he needs. This keeps him grounded, keeps him thinking about the present, and what he’s going to _do_ , what he can still do with just his mind and his body at his disposal.

 

“To properly make an opinion on how my skin feels against yours,” Kouen murmurs, tugging at the ties of Ja’far’s robes, “you should be feeling all of it.”

 

Ja'far is _far_ from inclined to protest, and slides his hands down over Kouen's guiding them into unraveling fastenings and ties to better let his robes slink down his shoulders. The obi hits the floor shortly afterwards, and Ja'far scoots forward, deeper into the other man's lap, his legs splaying and his robes opening with the jostling movement. 

 

"Make sure I do, then," he murmurs, tilting his head to better catch the lobe of Kouen's ear and tug.

 

Kouen’s hands close around Ja’far’s waist, and he dumps the man on his back, covering him with his own body. His hands splay out on the bed, one on either side of Ja’far’s head as he leans down, letting the length of his form drag slowly up and along Ja’far’s before claiming his lips in a slow, possessive kiss. It’s odd, the way his limbs feel right now, hairless and smooth, and the brush of Ja’far’s skin against his feels almost like rain, like water running along his legs and arms and chest, everything too-smooth to be flesh. “Open to me.”

 

A low, throaty groan wells in his chest, and Ja'far lurches up, lips the first thing to part with a slow, but no less _eager_ suck on Kouen's lower lip. He squirms to better splay his legs, opening them wide to cradle Kouen's hips between them, and the soft, _smooth_ drag of Kouen's skin against him makes him shudder, his hips twitching up in a needy arc. "You feel good like this," he breathes, his fingers spreading over Kouen's back, curling and flexing in.

 

“Like this?” Kouen drags a thigh up between Ja’far’s, a low, slow stroke to feel him hardening before settling firmly between them. He sets his mouth to Ja’far’s neck, sucking hard, making marks, determined to see them again after all this time. “Smooth? Or on top of you? Which is it you like, Ja’far?” he asks, hands sliding down, cupping and squeezing that supple ass, considerably more supple after all of Sinbad’s efforts to fatten him up.

 

"B-both--" It comes out far more a whine than he'd normally like, but he can't bring himself to _care_ when Kouen is grabbing at him like that, making him arch up and grind his cock in slow little circles into the other man's stomach. Ja'far's head lolls back, breath hiccuping on a groan, and his fingers drag up Kouen's spine, twisting up into his hair and kneading along his scalp. "Feels good… when your mouth is on me like that, too," he sighs out through his nose, eyes fluttering as his thighs squeeze to Kouen's hips, wanting to keep him _close_. 

 

“You like being marked.” It’s hardly a question, not when Ja’far is writhing slowly underneath him like that, sinuous motions bringing them in such delicious contact over and over. “God, you’re hard.”

 

He bites, teeth digging into one of the reddened marks he’d left before, sucking hard and pulling back only to admire the mottled bruise before setting his mouth to another one, working his way down a pale shoulder. “Claw at me like that, I like knowing you want my body on yours.”

 

Ja'far's hips twitch, teeth sinking into his own lower lip when his cock drags against Kouen's with his next wriggle, and his hands do just that, scratching down the other man's back, setting his nails to hard, taut muscle that flexes underneath his touch. He doesn't bother choking down another moan, the sound breaking on a breathless, panting whine. "T… take your time," he gasps out, eyes rolling back when Kouen's mouth draws out another, sucking bite and leaves his cock throbbing, leaking against his own stomach as he mindlessly ruts up. 

 

“My time?”

 

Kouen switches to the other side of Ja’far’s neck, making sure there’s _no_ good angle, that no matter where someone sees him from, they’ll see just how thoroughly he’s been taken, how much he’s loved it. He kisses, sucks, bites his way up to one ear, and whispers, “You think I have enough patience to take you slow? With you wriggling around like you’re going to come all over yourself just from being bitten?”

 

His eyes flutter at that, chest heaving from the effort it honestly _does_ take not to just come right then and there. With Kouen's breath hot against his ear, the marks he's left a throbbing, aching reminder, and every smooth, hard line of his body pressing against him--Ja'far whimpers, his nails digging in until his knuckles nearly turn white. "Please." The plea is little more than a rasp, rumbling low in his throat. " _Please_ , you feel so good--just--want you to fuck me slow--"

 

Kouen reaches a hand out, grabs the vial of oil he keeps for his skin, and drips a generous amount over his cock. “That’s all you need, right?” he murmurs, hands coming to the inside of Ja’far’s thighs, spreading his legs further. “You don’t need to be fingered and spread open like some tight virgin boy, you like the feel of a man between your thighs.”

 

With a slow, controlled movement, he presses in, fighting with himself not to simply _shove_ , hips rolling gently forward, filling Ja’far with easy, slow patience as sparks fly in his mind, goosebumps rippling down his arms at the sudden shock of bright-hot _pleasure_.

 

Ja'far nods frantically, his hands scrabbling at Kouen's back for some sort of grounding as he's stuffed so _full_ , Kouen's thick cock filling him so deeply that his chest heaves and eyes glaze, breathing an impossible task for several painstaking moments until their hips are _flush_. He whines, low and shaky, thighs trembling and twitching as he shoves his own hips down, just once, unable to _help it_ when he wants even more of that cock inside of him, when everything is so slick and hot and _perfect_ and he's splayed beneath a powerful man that knows just how to use him right. 

 

"Gods," he groans, flopping back helplessly, his hands sliding down to Kouen's upper arms, feeling the muscles bunch there as he grabs tight and digs his nails in. His cock _aches_ , harder still now that he's full of _Kouen_ , and he ruts down helplessly, hips rolling in slow, needy little movements. "Love it when you fuck me like this."

 

“I know you do.” Kouen slides in the rest of the way, letting Ja’far’s little squirming motions bring them flush together, holding him still while he takes a deep breath. Ja’far feels _too_ good inside, hot and tight and slick and like no one else ever has, squeezing him perfectly, cradling him, welcoming him inside. 

 

A breath, and then he’s under control. He moves, deep, slow thrusts, letting Ja’far _feel_ every inch of him, making him _writhe_. “Just like that,” he murmurs, setting a relentless, thorough pace that matches the swell of the waves under the ship. “I know you _suffer_ when you don’t have enough.”

 

Ja'far huffs out a hot, unsteady breath to serve as agreement, his hands clawing their way up to cling around Kouen's neck. His mouth falls open, a broken noise caught in his throat when each thrust makes him _twitch_ , white-hot shivers wriggling their way up his spine and making him flush hotter still. "You're more than…. ahh… god, _enough_ ," he groans, his head rolling back as he wriggles down, thighs splaying open wide  as he lends himself to being pulled down onto Kouen's cock, the thick, aching _stretch_ of it making his toes curl. "When you're--that deep inside me, I j-just…" 

 

“You just want to writhe on it for a while,” Kouen finishes for him, pulling the man down _hard_ once, bringing their hips together with a soft slap. “I don’t mind. Wiggle all you want, feel just how deep inside you I am.”

 

His hips move in slow circles, stroking, rubbing deep inside, and he sets his teeth against the thrum of the pulse in Ja’far’s neck, leaving another raw red bruise behind. His hands grip tightly, one on Ja’far’s waist, the other coming up to sharply pinch one nipple, tugging it between his fingers.

 

Ja'far _thinks_ he nods, though he's not sure when his hips hump down on their own accord, the slick, hot throb of Kouen inside of him spreading shivers all the way down to his toes. He's never quite understood the concept of _shame,_ not in bed, not when he has a chance to indulge and let go, and god, Kouen's cock feels _good_ , enough that he really can't help it even if he wanted to. He wriggles and squirms, setting one foot to the bed for some kind of leverage to better rock himself down against his cock, his chest twitching up into every pinch and pull of Kouen's fingers all the more when the man is stuffed inside of him so deeply. "Fuck," he whispers, blinking hard at the hot tears that well in the corners of his eyes, sharp and overwhelmed. 

 

There it is, the look in Ja’far’s eyes when he’s past the point of no return. If the others were here, this would be the point where Yuu would say Ja’far was _ready_ , and they’d lift him between them, two sliding into his ass at the same time, stretching his hole until he let out a broken whine of a noise, everything but feral pleasure-pain ripped from him.

 

Kouen’s hand leaves Ja’far’s chest, sliding down until he slides in a finger, then two, alongside the thick length of his cock. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “You can let go. I’ve got you.”

 

That isn't _fair_.

 

None of it is, especially the fact that Kouen knows him so damnably well after all this time. Ja'far gulps hard for air, his hands clawing into those broad shoulders, his hips a helpless, _mindless_ twitch and wriggle downward against that stretch that's _too much too much can't can't can't_ \--

 

He comes with a sound that's more sob than moan, spilling hard over his own stomach as he sinks back into the bed, boneless and barely, just barely clinging still to Kouen's neck, twitching and trembling with every breath. 

 

Ja’far has been good enough to teach Kouen patience, over the years. He uses that patience, something he has in spades when it comes to being a General, something that always tries to elude him in bed, until he sees Ja’far lost.

 

Then he throws it to the wind, and takes what he _needs_.

 

Ja’far is a slack, relaxed thing, and Kouen uses him hard, takes out his fingers and lets his hips snap up in a sharp staccato rhythm, punishingly fast, that glorious friction from Ja’far’s twitching form all he needs to get off. It’s _perfect_ , he’s _ready_ , and the smooth-slick slide of their bodies against each other is more than enough, the look on Ja’far’s face and the rough intensity of the fuck enough to throw him headlong into bliss, shivers wracking his body as he slams in a brutal final time, spilling deep inside of the smaller man. 

 

He pulls out, breathing hard, and leans back against the wall, legs spread as he sits. “There. Now you remember.”

 

"Understatement," is the eventual, rasping groan of agreement, and Ja'far just flops back, letting his head loll and a hand shakily slide up to rake sweat-soaked bangs from his face. He _aches_ , legs cramping from the tension still flowing out of them, and god, if that isn't a gloriously perfect feeling, being so used that he doesn't want to _move_. "Y-you've… gotten very good at that…"

 

“And you’ve never stopped being good.” Kouen lets his head loll back, a slow sigh coming from his mouth. “Verdict? How do you like the hairless man?”

 

"Approved," he breathily answers, rolling slowly onto his side to face Kouen, looking at him from beneath the fall of his hair. "There's also just a bonus in shaving you in the first place… it's rather soothing." 

 

“Agreed. Very well, I’ll let it stay for a while.” Kouen frowns down at his body, contemplative. “Unless it’s terribly obnoxious when it grows in.”

 

"The key is not letting it get to that point," Ja'far mildly says, stretching out one hand to delicately trace a finger along the inside of one of Kouen's thighs, following the pulse of the artery there. "Let's hope I am around long enough to maintain it properly for you."

 

“That,” Kouen says slowly, closing his hand over Ja’far’s with a gentle squeeze, “is entirely up to you. I’ll never ask you to leave.”

 

"… I'm…" Ja'far exhales slowly, his eyes briefly shutting before he looks up at the other man. "It's more the fact… of what I'm going to have to do, regarding Al-Sarmen."

 

“Shh.” Kouen lazily lays a hand on Ja’far’s face. “We’ll be split apart soon enough, for sure. No reason to hasten it by talking of doom and gloom.”

 

Ja'far huffs out a breath against Kouen's hand before he decides the better option is to just lick it. "It's realism. I've come to realize most people don't like it, though."

 

Kouen jerks his hand away, startled, and with a wry look, wipes it on Ja’far’s hair. “Not right now. I just want to lay here and watch your skin bruise.”

 

" _Rude_ ," Ja'far complains of the swipe of Kouen's hand, but he reaches out for the man anyway, grabbing at his arm to tug him down. "Lie next to me properly then. We can hide in here for a few hours before the crew comes looking for us." 

 

Kouen lets himself be tugged down, snaking an arm forward around Ja’far’s waist, nipping a bite to the shell of one ear. “Good. I don’t want to be disturbed when I have you like this.”

 

If there's anything Sinbad has taught him, it's finding a few moments to lounge around and _enjoy_ himself. Ja'far sorts this into one of those moments. "You're too comfortable right now, anyway," he murmurs, sliding a hand down Kouen's chest. And if nothing else, Kouen makes a very good pillow. 

 


End file.
